The Game Begins
by EverBeenToSpace
Summary: When Sherlock comes home for the holidays, his life is changed forever. The reason behind it: John Watson.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Sherlock Holmes sighed, his head thumping against his desk. There were still forty-five agonizing minutes until the final bell rang, releasing him and his fellow classmates on their well deserved winter vacation. Forty-five minutes that were ticking away at a pace that was entirely unacceptable. He sighed again loudly, staring blankly out the window at the flurry of snowflakes, following one with his eyes before it disappeared out of view. He wanted to be outside so badly, not so much to play in the snow, but just to be out there.

"Mr Holmes." Sherlock jerked upright at the sound of his name being called. The teacher, Mrs Harper, looked none too pleased to have found him staring out the window, daydreaming about sitting on a bench, watching the snow flutter by. "Does my class bore you, Mr Holmes?" Mrs Harper asked sharply, her eyes piercing him. It was safe to say that Sherlock wasn't exactly her favorite student. His grade in her class was excellent of course, the highest, nearly a 100%, but he didn't pay attention, choosing to do most of his work outside of class, and when group projects cropped up, he was very skilled at wriggling out of them to work by himself. He was antisocial and had learned early on in the school year that this was something frowned upon in Mrs Harper's 12th grade history class.

Sherlock sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"No, Mrs Harper, your class does not bore me." _But I would much rather be outside, or perhaps learning about something that is actually relevant, _he thought, thinking it better to bite his tongue; he didn't need to be sent to the dean's office for sassing a teacher. Again.

"Then I suggest you quit your daydreaming, Mr Holmes, and actually pay attention. This _will _be on a test when you return from winter break." And with that said, Mrs Harper returned her attention to the blackboard and resumed droning on about some event in history or another.

The class sniggered quietly, a few students turning discretely in their seats to give Sherlock rude faces. He responded to these students by glaring daggers into their souls until they turned around, looking distinctly disturbed. Fellow students warded off for the time being, Sherlock returned his attention to the snow that was falling thickly outside the thin pane of glass. Thirty-seven minutes to go.

—

Finally, the bell rang, dismissing them for their two and a half week break. Sherlock was relieved, but at the same time he was disappointed. Of course he wanted to be out of the blasted boarding school, there was nothing desirable about it, but he also didn't want to go home. It was more than likely that he would be stuck all alone with his older brother Mycroft for the entirety of the break. He wouldn't be surprised if his mother and father had taken a vacation to some place warm, leaving their two sons alone on Christmas, they had never been ones for large family gatherings and could barely stand Mycroft and Sherlock together in the same room for more than fifteen minutes, let alone under the same roof for two and a half weeks. So of course they would be out of town.

Sherlock sighed and began to pack his supplies as the other students flittered out of the classroom. He was the last to leave.

—

Sherlock began packing slowly. No doubt Mycroft had a car waiting for him in the front of the school by now and he was determined to make it wait for as long as possible. He packed enough clothes to last him the break, several books that he hadn't read yet, a travel chemistry set, his iPod, mobile phone, laptop, and violin. Once packed, he swept his gaze round the room, making sure he hadn't forgotten anything important. He found nothing, only an accumulating pile of dirty laundry in one corning (he would have to do something about that when he returned, what he had in his luggage was the only clean clothing he had left), a tidily made bed against the left-hand wall, his own half-made bed against the right, and a messy desk between the two beds, under the only window in the room.

No roommate to impede his thinking process or invade his personal space and items. It was how he liked it. Of course he had had to request it with the school and even then they had been reluctant to giving Sherlock a room all to his own. Apparently there was no telling what a seventeen year-old boy was capable of doing when he was by himself with no other student to keep him company. Eventually, after two years of attending the damned school, the dean had reluctantly granted Sherlock his own dorm room. Sherlock suspected Mycroft had something to do with it, but he wasn't going to ask, lest his brother hold it over his head when he needed help with something for work. No, it was better to pretend he didn't suspect Mycroft of doing something nice.

Sherlock stood for a moment longer in the middle of the room, gazing out the window at the snow that was still falling. Finally he walked to his bed and zipped up his bag. It was time to leave, although he dreaded it.

Out in the hall, students were bustling about, telling their friends goodbye and to have a happy Christmas. No one paid any mind to Sherlock, which was to be expected, they preferred to ignore him, hoping that if they acted as if he were invisible to them, that they would be invisible to him in return. He snorted inwardly. _As if, _he thought, looking around him casually. He caught the eye of one girl, who immediately looked away, as if she hoped he wouldn't be able to read her. Of course it didn't work that way. Sherlock could read a person from the clothes they wore, from how their hair looked, from the expressions on their faces, from the way they held themselves, from the tone of their voices, and from countless other things, it wasn't just eye contact that let him dive deep into their personal lives. From the worried look on the girls face and the way she gnawed at her bottom lip and wrung her hands together, Sherlock knew the girl had upsetting news for someone. But for who? Her body was angled more toward the hallway leading toward the boys' dormitory rooms, rather than toward the exit of the building, and her eyes kept darting to one door in particular. Sherlock turned to look at the number, room 201. Could be a brother, but unlikely. Sherlock had seen the girl around school many times and had seen her parents pick her up and drop her off at the end and beginning of each term, no brother to speak of. So a friend then. But a romantic friend or a regular friend? Sherlock looked at her closely, noting that her hair and makeup were both perfect. No girl, even the ones who were all about looks, would put that time and effort at the end of the last day of school before break just to talk to a regular friend, so boyfriend it was. Now the bad news, what would that be? Her face was unnaturally pale and as Sherlock walked past her, he detected the unmistakable sent of mint toothpaste and vomit. Vomit could indicate several things. She could have snuck out partying the night before, but there were no indications of a hangover. She could have a stomach virus or food poisoning, however, she did not look fatigued and no ill person would go to the trouble of looking that nice. And judging by her frame beneath the bulk of winter clothing, she was not bulimic. So that left one major theory: she was pregnant. Ah, yes, there it was. The slight bump that was barely noticeable beneath her jumper, the way she unconsciously brushed her hand against her belly every now and then. Sherlock smirked to himself. Someone was in for an unpleasant Christmas. He was glad he wasn't the only one.

Pushing his way through the crowded dormitory building, Sherlock made silent deductions of most everyone that crossed his path. It was a rather fun pastime, but it was more enjoyable when he was able to say them to the person's face. He only ever did that when someone had really pushed him over the edge, though, because students here had a tendency to run to teachers and tattle, and Sherlock had gotten in trouble countless times for asking someone or other whether they were aware that their parents were getting a divorce because their mother had slept with the father's best friend, or for telling someone that they had been wanking off in the bathroom before class, or better yet, shagging in the bathroom before class. People had learned quickly to avoid him, and that was exactly how he wanted it. Of course, there were a select few that just never learned and found it amusing to taunt Sherlock. And he always put them in their place, but still they didn't learn.

Finally, Sherlock pushed through the front doors of the dormitory building onto the front steps that led down into campus. Slowly he made his way to the front gates of the school, sure to take the scenic route. The campus was beautiful during the winter when the grounds were blanketed with snow, and the woods that ran parallel to the northern boarder were silent. Most people would consider it to be eerie, but Sherlock enjoyed the silence that snow brought with it. London didn't get the peaceful silence the way the country did, as the city hardly ever slept. Of course, there was no other place he would rather be than London, he just enjoyed getting out of the hustle and bustle of the crowded streets every now and then. Then again, going to a boarding school miles and miles away, he really didn't have much choice.

Quicker than he would have liked, Sherlock found himself at the front gates of the school and immediately spotted the black town car that his brother had sent to fetch him. Sighing, Sherlock meandered over and to his surprise, he found his brother leaning against the side of the car, mobile in hand, eyes racing over some email. He gritted his teeth and marched forward.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, not bothering with hellos.

Mycroft looked up from his mobile and smiled pleasantly at Sherlock. Sherlock bristled.

"Lovely to see you too, brother dear," the man said politely. He was dressed impeccably, as always. Working for the British government, one had to always look his best. Although, he was looking a little plump around the middle, Sherlock noted with a little smirk. Mycroft must have noticed, for his expression turned momentarily before returning to its usual politely blank mask. "I have come to fetch you and bring you home. Why else would I be here?"

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Why didn't you just send Anthea or something?" He hadn't been planning on seeing his brother for another three, maybe four hours. He needed time to prepare himself, and now he was deprived of that preparation. Sherlock wasn't sure he could handle a three or four hour car ride with his brother without wanting to shoot himself by the end.

"Oh, you know," Mycroft replied airily, waving a dismissive hand. "She had other errands to run."

"I'm sure she did," Sherlock grumbled. "Well, open the boot then, these are getting heavy." He gestured to his luggage and violin case.

When his things were safely in the trunk of the car, he slid into the back seat with his brother. He had retrieved his iPod from his bag and now plugged himself in, turning his music all the way up to drown out his brother. If he was going to have to ride in the same car with him for nearly four hours, he was going to ignore him to the best of his ability. Luckily, it wasn't a hard thing to do. Mycroft seemed to preoccupy himself with his mobile for most of the trip, so Sherlock was free to stare out the window. He kept his music on though, to discourage his brother from attempting to start a conversation.

—

Three hours and forty-five minutes later, the car finally pulled up to a beautiful house in the heart of London. Sherlock unbuckled and stepped out of the car, leaving his things in the boot because he knew they would be brought to his room. The house was exactly the way he had left it start-of-term, including the lack of parents. The floors were scrubbed within an in of their lives, the banisters polished to a shine, not a speck of dust anywhere.

_Home sweet home,_ Sherlock thought bitterly, heading straight up to his bedroom. There were still a few hours until supper, and he needed time to be away from his brother. Naturally, though, Mycroft had already escaped to his study.

On the second floor, down the hall to the right and through the third door on the left, Sherlock locked himself in his room. He considered taking a short nap, but decided against it. What he really wanted was a shower, as he hadn't had time that morning before classes started. He had over slept and found the line much too long. He was not willing to get in trouble for being tardy to class just for a shower.

As if on cue, there was a knock on his door and one of the maids called to him, "Mr Holmes, I'm leaving your things for you outside the door."

Sherlock waited a few seconds before unlocking the door and grabbing his bag and violin case. Rummaging through his clean clothes, he picked out his favourite striped tee-shirt, a worn pair of jeans, and a clean pair of pants. He wanted out of his school uniform. Clean clothes in hand, Sherlock made his way to the bathroom attached to his room. It was exactly as he left it before the term started. Dirty clothes piled behind the door, a towel hanging from a hook on the wall. There were a few books and scientific magazines stacked on the counter, ones that he only read because he enjoyed editing the mistakes he found and belittling the research on its many inaccuracies. _Honestly,_ he always thought, _these people really need to learn to do their research._

Setting his clothes on the toilet lid, he returned to his room to retrieve his toiletries.

—

Mycroft shook his head as Sherlock entered the dinning room for supper. He was clearly displeased with Sherlock's choice of dinner-wear and his still-damp hair. Sherlock couldn't help but grin at his brother, who was, of course, dressed in his usual three piece suit and tie.

"Really now, Sherlock," Mycroft said, the disapproval colouring his tone. "Couldn't you have worn something nicer than those old rags?"

"Pardon me, Mycroft, but I do believe I live here, and therefore, I am free to wear whatever I want to the dinner table." Sherlock took a seat across from his brother, lacing his fingers together and resting his hands under his chin. "Besides, you never specifically stated that I wear something nice."

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. "Very well. Let's just get supper over with. I have an early day tomorrow and would like to get to bed early."

"You're the one who chose to have it so late," Sherlock grumbled under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

And they ate supper in near silence, which was nothing new. However, close to the end of their meal Mycroft spoke up. He cleared his throat pointedly and Sherlock looked up, a little shocked that his brother had broken their routine silence.

"Sherlock," the government man began slowly, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat again.

"Oh, for god's sake, Mycroft, just spit it out," Sherlock said harshly, his patience wearing thin.

"I require your assistance, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, placing his fork and knife on his plate, and resting his arms on the table. He swallowed uncomfortably.

Sherlock sat back in his chair and crossed his arms and legs, an eyebrow cocked in interest. Since when did Mycroft Holmes need help from anyone? Mycroft Holmes, who _was_ the British government. Oh, this getting was interesting. However, Sherlock had yet to decide whether or not he would help. He said nothing, just watching his brother carefully.

Mycroft cleared his throat again and straightened his back. "You see," he finally continued, "I'm at a little bit of a loss. I seem to have…erm….double booked myself, yet again—"

"You really should look into getting a new assistant. Anthea doesn't seem to be doing a very good job at all," Sherlock interrupted, pushing his food around his plate with his fork. He really wasn't very hungry.

His brother gave him a sharp look. "I seemed to have double booked myself and found, upon looking in my books, that on Tuesday I have a rather important meeting to attend. However, that same day I also have a report due, and I'm afraid I haven't even begun working on it…."

"And you want me to do your report for you," Sherlock finished, rolling his eyes at his idiotic brother.

"Yes, that would be rather helpful. If you haven't got any plans, of course." Mycroft raised an eyebrow, the trace of a smirk pulling at the corners of his thin lips.

Sherlock scowled. Mycroft knew damn well that Sherlock had no plans, and even if he had, he would have demanded Sherlock put this report at the top of his to-do list. Mycroft really was a hateful person most of the time, how anyone worked with him was beyond Sherlock's comprehension for he could barely stand being in the same room as him for more than a couple of hours at a time.

"And if I refuse?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes. "It really isn't my problem that you over-extended yourself yet again, Mycroft. I should just let you face your higher-ups, let you suffer the consequences of not doing your homework. Besides, Tuesday is in four days, more than enough time to get your report finished."

Mycroft shook his head, sighing in a way that made Sherlock want to punch him. It was a sigh that clearly said "Feel bad for me! Oh woe is me!" and it was detestable.

"I have other engagements to attend to unfortunately. I shan't have enough time to complete it thoroughly. You, on the other hand, have nothing planed and four days of free time, ample enough time to get it finished. It shouldn't take you more that a few hours at most, knowing you. I've had everything you'll need, including the instructions sent to your room, they should be on your bed." Before Sherlock had time to object, Mycroft excused himself, setting his napkin on his plate and pushing back from the table. "Well, good night, brother, dear."

—

It was now about 3 o'clock in the morning and Sherlock found himself with nothing to do. He had finished reading one of the books he had brought with him and had decided before he had returned home that he would only read one book a night, and even then he would be left with nothing to read by the end of the trip, as he had only brought nine with him. So there he was, bored out of his mind, laying on his bed with his head dangling over the edge.

From his upside-down vantage point, Sherlock noticed the stack of files and papers he had tossed on the floor hours earlier. They were the documents that Mycroft wanted him base a report off of. Sighing grudgingly, he rolled onto his stomach and reached to grab them. There was no point in putting it off until later, his brother would only continue to harass him if he chose to procrastinate. It was better to just get it over with, and that way he would have the next three days to himself, rather than fussing over the damned report.

Sighing once more, he shuffled through the papers, skimming highlighted paragraphs, reading over the messy notes that were scrawled in the margins in his brother's hand-writing. It was rubbish, all of it, but if he wanted to make the report passable as Mycroft's, he had to stick with what was written on the papers.

As he went over them for the second time, Sherlock remembered why he detested politics with his entire soul. Politicians were manipulative bastards, the lot of them, and Mycroft wasn't any different.

With a little growl at being bullied into this assignment by his snake of a brother, Sherlock dug his laptop from his bag, booting it up. After a moment, his dim room was lit by the bright light of monitor. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the sudden light, grabbing his computer and plopping down on his bed, leaning against the wall. The papers were spread out on either side of him and he dove headfirst into the work.

At some point in the early morning, as the horizon began to turn grey with pre-dawn light, Sherlock was stumped and stood up, stretching his arms above his head with a groan. _Time for a break,_ he thought, moving to the door. He padded silently down the hall to the back stairs that led to the kitchen; he was a little bit peckish, since he had hardly eaten at supper. It was dark when he made it down and he felt his way to the refrigerator, opening the door and gazing at the contents as the cool air washed over him. Decided on an apple and a bottle of water, Sherlock returned to his room.

His little early morning snack didn't help him with his puzzle, though. He was still unsure how to word the next section without sounding to critical or sounding like he had no idea what he was talking about. But really, the information he had was insufficient and he wanted desperately to state as much in the report. However, he knew it would displease Mycroft and he would never hear the end of it. _How would brother dear word this?_ he thought sarcastically, his head dangling once more over the edge of his bed. With a huff, Sherlock sat up and grabbed his violin; he found that playing helped him to clear his mind.

—

The sun was high in the sky when Sherlock was finally finished with the report, and his eyes were blurry with lack of sleep. He saved the document to an empty memory stick and stood up, wobbling a little bit before catching his balance. Irritated and more than a little bit sleepy, Sherlock stomped out of his room and down the hall and stairs to his brother's study where he was most likely to be found. Sure enough, there Mycroft was, reclined back in a leather desk chair, his feet crossed on his desk, and his head hiding behind the morning paper.

"Here's your damned report," Sherlock all but snarled, tossing the memory stick on the top of the piles of paper that littered the surface of his brother's desk. "I hope you're happy." His voice was filled with venom.

Mycroft only smiled at him pleasantly, but Sherlock could see the triumph in his eyes. The man folded his paper neatly and removed his feet so he could have a better look at his younger brother. Sherlock could tell he was taking in the dark circles under his eyes, and his messy hair and rumpled clothes, the same he had put on after he had showered. He knew Mycroft could read from his appearance that he had stayed up all night working on that blasted report and it was nearly maddening to see the smug expression on his face. Sherlock glared.

"Ah, thank you Sherlock," Mycroft said in a polite voice. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"You could have done it yourself," Sherlock retorted, his eyes like granite. "It took me five hours, you could have had it done in the same amount of time. Divided between last night, tonight, Sunday night, and Monday night you could have easily had it finished. You really are an insufferable twat sometimes, shoving your duties off on others. It's a wonder you haven't been sacked yet." Sherlock was pleased to see the look of mild shock on Mycroft's face before the emotion was masked over.

His mind spoken, Sherlock turned on his heel and stomped back up to his room, closing his door with more force than was strictly necessary. With a great sigh, he collapsed on his bed, crushing papers beneath his stomach and not caring in the slightest. He pushed his laptop under his pillow and angled his hips up so he could pull his covers from beneath them, then pulled his blankets over himself, closing his eyes to sleep.

However, just as he was beginning to drift off, a sharp knock came to his door and Mycroft let himself in. He was, of course, dressed to kill and seemed to have something on his mind.

"Sherlock, I need your help wish something—"

"No," Sherlock immediately responded, not bothering to open his eyes.

"But you haven't even—"

"No," he repeated, burrowing deeper into the depths of his blankets. He was not going to help Mycroft with yet another put off project, one was more than enough for his visit.

"Really now, Sherlock. At least let me finish my senten—"

"What part of the word 'no' do you not comprehend, Mycroft?" Sherlock hissed. Silence. And then fabric shifting as Mycroft made to leave the room. "Close the door on your way out." He heard a disgruntled noise and the door clicked softly shut.

Sherlock sighed, his brain going pleasantly blank as he drifted to sleep.

—

Sherlock woke to find the house empty of his brother. It was refreshing, hearing nothing but silence all around him; perhaps he would actually be able to enjoy himself while his brother was out. He only hoped Mycroft wouldn't return until very late.

In the kitchen he made himself a breakfast—well it was more of a very, very late lunch, really—of cereal and toast with strawberry jam and it was the most peaceful time he had ever spent in the house. As he ate, he read the paper from that morning. The news was as dull as ever and he quickly grew bored with it, tossing it aside to gaze out the large french-doors that lead to the back garden. He watched as birds hopped around the flagstone, pecking at the birdseed that was spread there (most likely by the maids).

Finishing off his food, Sherlock placed his dirty dishes in the sink and returned to his bedroom to shower. He fancied a stroll through the town, but he felt disgusting and grungy after staying up all night, then sleeping all day. In the bathroom, he turned on the water and ran a comb quickly through his tangled curls, wincing a little as the teeth snagged a particularly nasty knot. After, he brushed his teeth and stripped, stepping under the warm water.

Sherlock wet his hair and just stood there for a few minutes, head tipped back, eyes closed, letting the warmth creep through his body. It must have been more than a few minutes, because all too soon the water began to cool and Sherlock was forced to wash. He scrubbed his body and hair until he felt clean, turned the water off and stepped out of the shower, water dripping from him. He wrapped a towel around his slender hips and walked through the open bathroom door into his bedroom. Sherlock's clean clothes were laying on his bed, but he ignored them, walking to the window.

It was overcast, and the clouds looked as if they might let loose a curtain of rain at any minute. _I'll have to remember to bring an umbrella with me,_ Sherlock thought, meandering back to his bed, sitting down. He sighed and picked up his clean pants, tugging them on before discarding the damp towel on the floor. Next came his jeans, then a plain white long-sleeved tee-shirt, and lastly, a navy blue jumper. Standing up, he stooped down to scoop up his towel, running it over his still-dripping hair to dry it some, he didn't want to step outside and catch cold because he had a wet head. When Sherlock was convinced that he would not catch sick the moment he stepped out into the chilly December air, he returned the towel to the hook on the wall in the bathroom and pulled on his socks and trainers once back in his room.

Sherlock was now ready for a day, or rather, what was left of it, out. He found that he was actually looking forward to it, since he hadn't wandered around London in quite a while. It would be nice to actually be around common population, rather than the other students at Monkshood Academy. Either way, he had decided to visit Mrs Hudson, an old family friend. He would need to catch a cab, but he didn't mind, if anything, it gave him an excuse to spend his father's "well earned money". Grabbing his wallet from his bag, Sherlock made sure the plastic bank card his parents had so generously given him at start of term two years previous was in its usual slot and stepped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

As he walked through the foyer, he debated whether or not he should leave Mycroft a note should he return before Sherlock. Of course he decided against it. Sherlock had a mobile and Mycroft was capable of picking up the telephone and ringing him. Mind made up, he snatched the spare set of house keys from the key hook in the coat closet, as well as an umbrella, and left, locking the front door behind him.

Outside, the air was brisk and Sherlock's breath puffed out in front of his face. He wished he had grabbed a coat, but made his way down the front steps anyway, walking a few blocks before hailing a cab near the corner.

"221B Baker Street, please," he said to the cabbie, settling back in the seat.

He watched as the street names passed him by, absentmindedly thinking to himself that they could have taken a left here, or continued straight there. He knew the cabbie was deliberately taking him the long way around, milking him for every cent he could. Sherlock really couldn't care less, it wasn't his money anyway. And besides, it was relaxing watching the streets of London passing by. However, in mid-thought, he was interrupted rudely by his mobile buzzing, letting him know he had a text. Pulling his phone from his jeans pocket, he saw that it was from Mycroft. _Figures, _Sherlock thought, opening the message. It was a continuation of their conversation from that morning. Mycroft apparently wanted help with yet another of his government assignment. Sherlock was just about to reply "NO" when his battery died. Ah well, at least now he could think in peace. He would use Mrs Hudson's phone to text his brother when he got to Baker Street.

A half hour later, the cab slowed to a stop in front of 221B and Sherlock stepped out, paying the cabbie. He walked up to the door and knocked.

From inside, Sherlock could hear Mrs Hudson yell something and then her footsteps came down the hall to the door. A second later, she flung it open and stood looking at Sherlock. She was wearing a floral apron and her face was smudged with flower. _Baking then,_ Sherlock thought with a little smile.

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, beaming. "So good to see you! Come in, come in! We were just doing a bit of baking. If I'd known you were coming over, I'd have put the kettle on." She talked as they moved back down the hall to the kitchen.

When they walked into the room, Sherlock saw a sandy haired boy washing dishes at the sink. He was about his same age, though shorter by a good four or five inches. He was muscular, probably from playing sports, football, if Sherlock had to guess. One of his parents was in the military, judging by his posture and hair cut, but he was having family issues, otherwise he would be staying with them for the holiday rather than Mrs Hudson. How did Sherlock know the boy was staying with Mrs Hudson? Simple. There had been a suitcase under one of the coats, the boy's coat, in the entrance, so he had just arrived. Sherlock smirked to himself as he watched the other, but quickly masked the show of emotion when the blonde turned around, giving him a friendly smile.

"Sherlock, this is John Watson. His mother is a friend of mine, we were in a book group together a few years back." Mrs Hudson gestured to the blonde who shifted from one foot to the other. "John, this is Sherlock Holmes. I've know his family for ages. Used to baby-sit when the nanny need a night off." She gestured to Sherlock now. "I'll put the kettle on, you boys go in the drawing room and get acquainted." When John looked as if he would protest, shifting toward the sink that was still crammed with dishes, Mrs Hudson would hear nothing of it and shooed the two of them out.

Sherlock stopped at the door. "Mrs Hudson, could I borrow your mobile? Mine's died and I prefer to text."

Mrs Hudson shook her head. "Sorry dear. I've misplaced mine. Just vanished one day and I haven't been able to find it since."

Sherlock looked over at John when he saw the boy reach into his pocket, pulling out an expensive looking phone. "Here," he said, handing it to Sherlock. "Use mine."

"Oh," Sherlock said, looking mildly surprised. "Thank you." He glanced at the phone before sliding it open and punching in his brother's number and typing "No. –SH". Sherlock handed the phone back.

"Alright now boys, off to the drawing room, off with you," Mrs Hudson chided, waving them away.

Sherlock saw no point in arguing. He just walked through the drawing room door and sat down the sofa. It was hard from lack of use and no matter how he adjusted, he simply could not get comfortable. He assumed the chairs were just as bad, because John was shifting in the one he was seated in, a look of discomfort on his face. Finally the blonde just settle on perching at the very edge of the cushion.

Sherlock sat back and crossed his legs, watching John with calculating eyes. When he finally spoke the other boy jumped at the sound of his voice.

"So. Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked, not taking his eyes off John. He could see surprise mingled with shock flash across his face.

"….I'm sorry. What?" John finally said.

"Where was your parent? Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock repeated, still watching the blonde closely.

John hesitated, trying to adjust himself better in the hard chair. "Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you—" but he was cut off when Mrs Hudson brought the tea, chatting about the damp weather and how it was making her hip ach more than it usually did.

"Did you know, John, that Sherlock has an unusual talent for being able to read people?" Mrs Hudson said conversationally, changing the subject from her hip to Sherlock in the blink of an eye.

John looked intrigued either way, looking at Sherlock curiously. "Really? How do you mean?"

"He can take one look at you and tell you your whole life story is how I mean," Mrs Hudson said scandalously. "He's probably got you already figured out, haven't you Sherlock."

Sherlock just sat, his eyes never moving from John. He could tell the blonde was skeptical and grinned faintly. "Don't you believe in me, John?" he asked softly. "Would you like me to prove it?" Sherlock looked hard at John's face. "I know you play sports, most likely football judging by your build. I know one of your parents, probably your father, was in Afghanistan, but was recently invalided home due to a serious injury. I know you're having home issues, you wouldn't be here during the holiday if it weren't the case. Maybe you've had a row with a parent, maybe your father is suffering from PTSD and your mother doesn't want you in that environment, more than likely the latter. And I know you have a much older brother that you don't approve of, possible because of his drinking, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife." He paused, looking over at John, the boy had a stunned expression on his face.

"How can you possibly know all that?" he finally managed to ask.

"I don't know, I notice. The way you hold yourself and your haircut clearly says military, but you're too young to enlist, still in the 12th grade I'm assuming, so that leaves the parents. Statistically, it's more likely that the father is in service, so there's that. Military leaves mainly Afghanistan or Iraq. As for your father being invalided home, there was a hospital visitors badge on your coat hanging in the entrance, with the name of whom I can safely assume is your father printed under 'visiting', simple. The issues with your family are straightforward. The hospital badge is recent, but since you're here with Mrs Hudson, that must mean your father is being released soon or already has been. If there were nothing wrong with him, you'd be home, celebrating Christmas with your parents, but you're not, which tells me something is off. So you either had a row or your father has PTSD, which is common in war veterans. The PTSD must be pretty bad, though, if your mother doesn't want you around that. As for your brother, your mobile. You wouldn't be able to afford something like that on your own, phone plans are expensive, and it's unlikely your parents would pamper you with it, you're from a military family after all. There were also tiny scratches on the back, so it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. It's unlikely that a young man such as yourself would purchase a luxury item like this and mistreat it in that way, so it had a previous owner. We've already established that it wouldn't have been your mother or father, no, this is a young man's gadget, email capabilities, mp3 player. Unlikely you have any cousins you're close to, otherwise you'd be staying with them, so brother it is. The next one's easy, you already know it."

"The engraving," John said, blinking.

"Right. 'To: Harry Love: Clara'. Clara, who's Clara? Price of the gift says wife not girlfriend. But it was given to him recently, this model's only six months old. Six months and his already giving it away? State of unmarriage right there. If she'd left him, he would have kept it, people always do. Sentiment. No, he left her. And the fact that he's even giving it to you says he wants you to stay in touch, but you're not likely to do that, at least not for a while, because something he's done 's rubbed you the wrong way. A good reason would be his walking out on his wife, but there's another reason, too." He gave John a pointed look.

"How can you _possible_ know about the drinking?" John asked in stunned disbelief.

Sherlock smirked. "Shot in the dark. A good one though. The power connection. There are tiny little scuff marks around the edges. So he went to plug the phone in at night but his hands were shaking. You'd never see a sober man's phone with them, never see a drunk's without." He sat back and watched the other boy, judging his reaction.

After a few moments of blinking in shock, John finally spoke. "That….was amazing," he said.

It was Sherlock's turn to be shocked. "You really think so?"

"Of course I do. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people usually say," Sherlock admitted.

"What do people usually say?"

"Piss off."

He looked up and saw John smiling and heard a light chuckle rumble from his chest. Sherlock smiled faintly as well. "Did I get anything wrong?"

John thought for a moment before he spoke. "Dad has got PTSD. Pretty badly, apparently. Harry and I don't get on, never really have. Harry and Clara have been divorced for….three months, I think. Harry is a drinker."

Sherlock couldn't suppress the grin the formed on his lips. "Spot on then," he said smugly. "Didn't expect to be right about everything."

"Harry is short for Harriet," the footballer added, as if it were an afterthought.

Sherlock was quiet for a few seconds. "Harry is your sister…."

John nodded. "Yes."

"Your _sister!_ Ah, well, there's always something." Sherlock sighed.

"Still, that was amazing," John pipped up, flashing Sherlock a charming smile that caught him off guard.

"Ah—yes—well. Thank you," he finally managed lamely, having to look away from the other's face. He could feel his cheeks flushing and only hoped John didn't notice.

Just then, Mrs Hudson cleared her throat and both boys jumped; they had forgotten the woman was in the room with them.

"Didn't I tell you he was amazing, John? It's a little unnerving if you ask me, having your life story told to you like that by someone you've only just met. Ah, but Sherlock's a good lad." She looked at Sherlock fondly and he gave her a genuine smile.

—

"You'll have to come back tomorrow, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said, giving him a hug before he left. It was quite late and it was about time he got home.

"Of course," Sherlock said with a smile, stooping down to kiss the woman on the cheek. He glanced over her shoulder at John. "It was nice meeting you, John."

"It was nice meeting you, too," John responded, with a slight nod and a polite smile. "I'm sure I'll see you again before the break is over."

_Only if I'm really lucky,_ Sherlock found himself thinking. He caught himself and shook his head, clearing his throat. "Hopefully," he said with the trace of a smile. "Well, I'm off. It's late and Mycroft is probably wondering where I've got off to. Good night." He stepped down the two front steps, turning to give a little wave. The road was quiet and Sherlock found that he had to walk a few blocks before he was able to hail down a cab.

Once on the way home, the only thoughts on his mind were those of John Watson. He growled quietly to himself. How was it that a boy he had only known for five hours had managed to worm his way so deeply into his brain? Sherlock would say it was unreasonable to feel even remotely affectionate for John, that he barely knew him, but that was not entirely true. He knew almost everything about the footballer. It was unnerving. Five hours and he was practically swooning, it was pathetic. Besides, John Watson was not gay, there was no way he would be even remotely interested in Sherlock. It was very dejecting when Sherlock thought hard about it. He found someone he liked for the first time….well, ever, really, and he had about the same amount of chance with him as a snowball had in Hell.

His thoughts distracted him the entire trip and before he knew it, the cab pulled up in front of his house. Sighing, Sherlock stepped out of the car, paid the cabbie, and walked slowly up the front steps. He hoped very much that Mycroft wasn't home, and maybe even if he was, Sherlock would be able to slip up to his room undetected by his brother. One could only hope. So, as silently as he could, Sherlock unlocked and opened the front door, and crept inside. The house was silent, but Mycroft could very well be up in his study, or in the drawing room or library.

Sherlock slipped off his shoes and padded across the floor in his socks, not making a sound. Long ago, he had memorized where the creaks in the wood were. As he was making his way silently up the stairs, he heard shoe heals clicking against the hardwood, moving from the kitchen to the dinning room, making their way to the foyer and, ultimately, to where Sherlock was. His heart leapt into his throat and he took the last few stairs two at a time, moving like a ghost. Luckily, the upper levels were carpeted and that made it much easier to move along stealthily.

Once in his room, Sherlock shut and bolted the door, letting out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He was safe. If he kept up this routine for the rest of his time in London, Sherlock would never have to cross paths with his brother, not even in their own home. It could work. The thought was a pleasant one; however, its distraction didn't last long and soon, Sherlock found his thoughts had wandered once more to John Watson.

Frustrated, he flung himself on his bed, burying his face in a pillow, and tried desperately to think of something other than the blonde footballer and how attractive he probably looked in his football kit. It was nearly impossible. Whenever he managed to focus his mind on something unrelated, John would pop up, smiling at him in the most charming way. Groaning, Sherlock rolled himself over and stared at the ceiling, hoping that a solution might come from its pattern. Of course, none came. It had taken John Watson a mere five hours to completely engulf Sherlock Holmes' mind, that had to be a record somewhere.

Feelings were not something Sherlock was well equipped to deal with, he usually had no problems shoving all emotions behind the barrier he had built for himself as protection years ago. Somehow, though, John had broken past those walls, walls that Mycroft had been trying (and failing) to chip away at since they went up. Walls that seemed to be meters thick, and John Watson broke them down without realizing, as if they were the thinnest glass. It was unthinkable, and if he were being completely honest with himself, it frightened Sherlock beyond all comprehension. One boy and five hours later, and he was reduced to an emotional and hormonal train wreck. He had to get straightened up, start rebuilding the walls, stronger this time.

Sighing, Sherlock ran his hands through his dark curls, his fingers catching in knots which he pulled out mercilessly. He had to clear his mind of everything, it was the only way he could begin to repair his defenses. Of course he had no way of knowing that in a matter of hours, those newly rebuilt, still setting walls would once again be ripped down, and probably never rebuilt the same again. At least not the same to John Watson.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

John Watson let out his breath as the door closed behind Sherlock Holmes. He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. Sherlock bloody Holmes. Sighing, John fell against the wall, leaning with his right shoulder, arms crossed. There was something unusual and unique about the raven-haired boy and he found himself undeniably drawn. Whether it was merely out of curiosity or because of other reasons, John could not quite pin down; all he knew was that he wanted to learn more about Sherlock Holmes.

John's thoughts were interrupted by Mrs Hudson, who had cleared her throat to get his attention. She smiled at him knowingly and said, "Fetching, isn't he?"

John's cheeks coloured and he coughed, looking away from the woman. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mrs Hudson," he muttered, keeping his eyes on the hardwood, pretending to find the patterns in the grain very interesting. John Watson was not gay….though, that evening's events had shown he was capable of finding another male attractive…. John shook his head violently, eyes squeezed shut. He did _not_ fancy Sherlock Holmes he told himself firmly. Besides, there was no way he could, he had only known the other boy for five hours, _maybe._ Nowhere _near_ enough time to deduce feelings for another person.

_But Sherlock might be coming over again tomorrow,_ John thought, and to his surprise he felt the unmistakable flutter of butterflies in his stomach.

"I'm going to bed, Mrs Hudson. I'll see you in the morning," John announced after a few moments' embarrassing silence. He needed time to sort through his thoughts and feelings.

"Alright, sleep well, dear," Mrs Hudson replied, kissing him on the cheek goodnight.

And John trudged his way up the creaky staircase. Mrs Hudson had an empty flat on the level above and she had offered it to John while he stayed with her for the two and a half week long winter break. It was actually a very nice flat and he was considering asking Mrs Hudson to hold on to it for him, at least until he graduated and could move away from his parents. He could even possibly find himself a flatmate. But it was still a plan in progress.

He unlatched the deadbolt (Mrs Hudson always kept the flat locked, just in case. "It's better to be safe than sorry," she had said when John asked about it), and stepped into the flat. It was furnished nicely, a grey leather sofa pushed against one wall, a telly on the wall opposite it. There was what he supposed would be the dinning room table just between two windows and there were several bookshelves. John's favorite place to sit, though, was the chair he had claimed as his. Well, he would have claimed it, if there had been anyone to claim it from. It was a comfortable old chair with a Union Flag pillow. He enjoyed reading in it. And directly across from this comfortable chair it had a mate. Not the same chair though, more modern looking with a stainless steel frame and grey leather cushions. John couldn't help but wonder where Mrs Hudson had gotten it.

Sighing, John settled himself down in his chair to think. He was trying to sort out his feeling for Sherlock Holmes, but it was nearly impossible. Everything was just a jumble of confusion and he soon gave up, rubbing his forehead.

Glancing at his watch, he found that it was nearly 12 o'clockmidnight. He needed to get to bed or he would never wake up in the morning. Standing and stretching his arms over his head with a massive yawn, John slowly walked to his room. The events of the day were catching up with him quickly and he soon found himself lightheaded with drowsiness, his head feeling like a balloon full of helium whenever he moved it. Everything seemed to move too fast for his brain to process and his eyelids felt as if they were made from lead. When he reached his room, he stripped off his tee-shirt and jeans and fell into bed, falling asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

—

John was woken the next morning by a ray of sun that shone through a gap in the curtains. Groaning, he rolled onto his back and covered his face with his hands. After a few minutes, he work up his will power enough to drag himself out of bed and into the bathroom. Showering was his first priority, he hadn't had the chance yesterday. Between traveling into London, Mrs Hudson, and Sherlock Holmes, his day before had been completely busy. Sighing, he turned on the shower and meandered back to his room, gathering a clean change of clothes.

Back in the bathroom, John stripped off his pants and stepped under the warm stream of water. His muscles relaxed and he tilted his head back, wetting his hair. It felt nice, the warmth seeping into his soar body. Even on the off seasons, his father kept him practicing his football, even as he had toured through the deserts of Afghanistan; and as much as John loved the sport, it was nice to just relax for these two weeks, not worrying about the physical exertion that came from the intense training. Still, he had to keep in shape; two weeks of lazing around would do nothing but set him off course and cause him to have to work harder once he got home. John decided he would go for a run the next morning.

Ten minutes later, he stepped out of the shower, hair a disheveled damp mess, towel wrapped around his lean hips. Before he dressed, he grabbed his toothbrush from the counter, may as well get his other hygiene tasks out of the way. Once his teeth were clean and his mouth tasted like mint, John dressed, pulling on his pants, followed by his jeans and a plain navy blue tee-shirt. Now ready for the day, John checked the time on his mobile. He was surprised to find how early it was, only 7:30am. He wondered if Mrs Hudson would be up by now. Only one way to find out.

Making his way to the door, he considered pulling on a pair of clean socks and his trainers. But what was the point in that? He didn't plan on going anywhere, only around the flat, maybe he would wander around London later, but why put shoes on now? So barefooted, he crept silently down the stairs. Everything was quiet, but that didn't mean Mrs Hudson wasn't awake. And then all at once, John was hit with the smell of fresh coffee. It sharpened his senses and seemed to wake him up further.

"Mrs Hudson?" he called softly, following the sent. Mixed in with the smell of the coffee, John detected toast and something sweet.

"In the kitchen, dear!" Mrs Hudson called cheerily.

John made his way to the kitchen and found the woman wearing a flowered apron; it looked like she was baking something and upon entering the room, John found that it smelled amazing.

"What're you making, Mrs Hudson?" he asked, coming up behind her and pecking her cheek good morning. "Smells heavenly."

"Oh, I'm glad you think so," she said, smiling up at him. "It's an old family recipe. Strawberry pie."

"Mmm," John hummed. "Anything I can help you with?"

"Oh, no, dear. Just sit down and eat. I made you breakfast." She gestured to the small table against the wall. On it, there was a plate with beans and toast and a steaming cup of coffee.

"You didn't have to make me anything. I could have done it," John said gratefully, sitting down and taking a sip of the coffee. It was just the way he liked it, no sugar, no milk.

"Nonsense. You're my guest."

John just smiled, taking a bite of the toast. It was good. While he ate he found himself thinking, infuriatingly, of Sherlock Holmes. Sighing, he set down his breakfast and clasped his hands together.

"Mrs Hudson," he said at length, keeping his eyes on his food. He gnawed on his bottom lip before continuing. "Will Sherlock be coming over again today?"

Mrs Hudson glanced over at the blonde, a little smile gracing her sweet face. "I don't know, dear," she admitted. "But I'm sure he will be. He's over here all the time. Comes to avoid his brother, you know." She nodded to herself.

John found that he was a little bit surprised. "He has a brother?"

"Oh yes," Mrs Hudson pipped. "He's practically the entire British government. He and Sherlock don't really get on. They used to be so close as children." Mrs Hudson clicked her tongue, a look of regret on her face.

John took a thoughtful bite of his toast. So Sherlock Holmes had an older brother who was important in the British government. But there was still so much he wanted to know about the other boy.

"What time does he usually come over?" John asked, finishing the last of his beans and toast. He stood up and placed his plate in the sink.

"Usually in the evening. During the summer and winter breaks, he's a bit of a night owl. He stays up late reading and playing that violin of his, and then spends most of the day sleeping. It's an unhealthy habit if you ask me, but he seems to enjoy being nocturnal." Mrs Hudson wiped her hands on her apron, looking at John as he sipped his coffee and leaned against the kitchen table.

John was struck. Sherlock Holmes had an older brother and he played the violin. How interesting. Well, if he was coming over today, and John dearly hoped that he would, it would be in the evening. He had plenty of time to see the sights at least.

"Mrs Hudson, would you mind if I went out later? I've never really seen this part of London and I'd like to take a look around."

"Of course not, dear," Mrs Hudson replied, placing the pie crust over the filling of strawberries and sugar. "It's your holiday and you can spend it however you like."

John smiled and placed his cup with his plate in the sink.

"Oh, one more thing," the woman called before he had the chance to leave the kitchen. He looked over his shoulder at her. "I'm you hostess, not your house keeper."

John's cheeks flushed and he quickly returned to the sink to wash his dishes.

—

It was around four-thirty in the afternoon when John returned from his day on the town. He had a few shopping bags in his arms and quickly stored them up in his flat. He had done a bit of Christmas shopping while he was out and had picked up a few things he thought Mrs Hudson would like. Once the bags were safely hidden under his bed, John grabbed the book he was currently reading from the coffee table and settled into his chair.

An hour and three chapters later, a knock came from the front door, and John jumped, his heart fluttering. _Stop that, _he scolded himself, _you do not fancy him. He's just interesting. Different. Nothing more. You do _not _fancy him!_ Sighing, he stood up and dog-eared his book, placing it on the side table next to his chair. From downstairs he could hear Mrs Hudson talking cheerfully to Sherlock and as they passed the base of the stairs, she yelled up:

"John! Sherlock is here!"

John blushed faintly and hurried to greet Sherlock.

The two were in the drawing room again and when John stepped in, his heart leapt into his throat as Sherlock looked up and flashed him a smile before resuming his conversation with Mrs Hudson. He took the seat opposite Sherlock and watched him from beneath his lashes as he poured himself a cup of tea. He had to admit to himself that he rather liked the way Sherlock's dark hair framed his pale face, and he couldn't help but ogle at the light blue of his eyes. Eyes that were now watching him closely.

_Shit,_ John thought, looking away and focusing on the tea cup and saucer that rested between his hands, _he's seen me watching him. God, why does he have to be so easy on the eyes?_ He bit his lip nervously.

And that was when it hit him. He _did_ fancy Sherlock Holmes. Quite a bit actually. John fancied him more than he'd fancied any girl he'd ever dated. After knowing the boy for only five hours, John Watson found himself wanting to tangle his fingers in those raven curls and kiss that delicate neck. The thought made him blush and he ducked his head down, hoping Sherlock wouldn't notice. It was insane, completely unreasonable. He shouldn't want someone so badly after only knowing them for five hours. Of course, John had friends (if you could call them that) that had screwed girls after knowing them only a few minutes.

But somehow this was different. He didn't just want Sherlock for a quick fuck. He actually wanted to know him, be with him. And that thought made John even more embarrassed, his cheeks colouring a deeper shade of pink.

"John?" He jumped at Mrs Hudson's voice and her hand on his forehead. "You haven't got a fever, have you?" she asked, worried.

"Ah….No. I'm alright, Mrs Hudson. Just a bit hot's all." John smiled at her reassuringly. But at the same time he had to hold back a little laugh at the innuendo of his words.

"Hmm….well, if you say so." She sat back in her chair and resumed her conversation with Sherlock once again.

The two were talking about Sherlock's school, but the raven-haired boy didn't seem to be paying attention. His eyes never strayed from John's face and it made John a little bit uncomfortable. He shifted in his chair, keeping his gaze on anything and everything that wasn't Sherlock's body or face. It was difficult.

_Five hours, and he's already got you hooked like a fish! _he yelled at himself. _Five hours and you already want to invite him upstairs. Oh, just look past the fact that you're not gay, I'm sure it'll be fine. What the hell is wrong with you?!_ John hissed under his breath, furrowing his brows angrily at himself. How could he let himself be swept off his feet by some boy he had never, until the day before, met in his entire life. It was frustrating to think about.

—

Finally, at a little past eleven, Sherlock left, and the tension of resisting the urge to jump him right then and there evaporated from John's body. It was a relief to see Sherlock go, but at the same time, he wished he had stayed for a little bit longer. He enjoyed the sound of Sherlock's voice, it was deep and rich and it sent a chill down John's spine ever time he spoke.

Sighing, John said good night to Mrs Hudson and trudged back up to the flat above. He was tired and wanted to sleep, but his mind was racing. He fancied Sherlock Holmes. Of all the people in the world, male or female, he fancied Sherlock Holmes. Though John had not seen Sherlock interact with other people besides himself and Mrs Hudson, he had the distinct feeling that the raven-haired boy wasn't very good with others. He was crass and spoke his mind truthfully to an almost hurtful degree. Despite these facts, John still wanted to be with Sherlock like he had never wanted to be with anyone else. It was maddening, truly maddening.

Covering his face with his hands and groaning, John sat down in his chair. What on earth was happening? He had come to London to visit Mrs Hudson for the Christmas holiday, only to find himself completely smitten for a boy who went to a boarding school hours away. Besides that, John didn't even live in central London, no, he lived on the very outskirts of the city. It had taken his mother nearly an hour just to get him to 221B Baker Street with the usual traffic, how long would it take him to visit Sherlock on weekends if they ended up together? Long distance relationships were never a good idea.

Oh, but he really wanted to try. It would be worth it, he could tell. With a tired sigh, John stood and walked slowly to his room. He needed to sleep on his thoughts a little bit, get his mind sorted out.

—

_Sherlock Holmes is here, in my room. He has a devilish grin on his face that I find incredibly sexy. Slowly, he stalks forward like a cat, his eyes gleaming. He's at the foot of my bed, pulling the covers down. I'm fully clothed, wearing the same thing I fell asleep in. He's crawling up and it makes him look even more cat-like. He finally reaches me and straddles my waist, pushing my shoulders back until I'm laying down._

_He leans down and his lips skim my ear as he whispers, "Just relax, John." And I do, looking up at him, a small smile on my lips. I know what's coming._

_Sherlock kisses me and I wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him closer against my chest. I feel his lips moving against mine and it's like heaven on earth. His kiss is soft and sweet, but slowly it starts to heat up. His teeth graze my bottom lip and I shiver involuntarily. He slides his tongue along the edge of it before prying my mouth open. I moan quietly, arching my back so that our chests are pressed even tighter together and our stomachs touch. Kissing Sherlock Holmes is like nothing I've ever felt before, it's amazing. His mouth is soft but demanding._

_His tongue touches mine fleetingly before diving in, causing me to moan more loudly. He swallows the sound up, his mouth moving perfectly against mine. Suddenly he pulls away and we're both gasping for air. As I'm catching my breath, Sherlock ducks his head down and begins attacking my neck. His lips touch a sensitive area that sends a shudder down my spine and I feel him grin before he begins to suck at the spot. I groan and one of my hands moves from his waist to tangle in his dark curls._

_After a moment, he pulls away slightly, running his tongue over what I'm sure will be a fantastic love-bite in the morning. I pull him back to my mouth by his hair and kiss him softly, running my tongue over his bottom lip. Before I know it, he's in my mouth and as he explores, I role my hips unconsciously against his and I think I hear a noise that sounds suspiciously like a quiet moan escape his lips. I want to hear it again, so I throw myself into the kiss and grind my hips hard against Sherlock's. He pulls away and tilts his head back, letting out a breathy moan._

_For a moment his just sits there, looking up at the ceiling and panting, but then his eyes move back down to my face and his hands slide under my shirt. His fingers are warm as the move along my stomach, stroking my sides softly. From the look on his face, I know he wants the clothing off, so I sit up and decide to tease him. As slowly as I can, I pull the hem of my shirt up, revealing little by little my stomach and finally my chest._

_As I discard the unwanted clothing, I suddenly find myself being pushed down again, and Sherlock's mouth is on my throat, kissing softly. He moves at a torturous pace down my body and he has me withering as he places a trail of love-bites all down my chest and stomach until he reaches my navel. I feel his tongue dance against it and I let out a gasp, arching my back._

_Unable to stop myself, I move his head back up to my mouth and kiss him feverishly. His tongue moves against mine and when I moan, he pulls away and his mouth ghosts back down to my stomach. I feel his fingernails scratch against my sides and arch my back again, biting my lip to fight the groan that is threatening to burst out._

_Sherlock moves his hands from my waist down to my fly and begins to undo the button. My heart leaps into my throat as I watch him. He looks back up at me before resituating himself so that he is nestled comfortably between my legs, rather than straddling my waist. He massages my sides and stomach and I practically turn to putty beneath his hands. I moan and gasp and arch my back, and all the while, he grins at me, satisfied that he is able to draw such noises from my lips. It would have been embarrassing if it didn't feel so good._

_I feel him pull at the elastic of my pants with his teeth as he begins to tug my jeans down lower. Soon the denim jeans are around my thighs._

_Sherlock gazes up at me. His eyes are blazing with want as he bends his head down and licks me through my pants. I moan loudly, throwing me head back. I hear Sherlock chuckle and my pants are sliding down to join my jeans—_

John sat bolt up in his bed, panting hard, heart beating so fast it felt like it would jump from his chest. He felt that his shirt was clinging to his back, damp with sweat, and he could tell that he was hard. Laying back down, John covered his face with his hands and focused on calming his racing heart and getting his breath back. He had just had a sex dream, a very good sex dream, about Sherlock Holmes, a boy he had know for a total of eleven hours. He felt his cheeks and ears heat up. Despite being mortified about the dream, John couldn't help but wonder if that was really what it would be like to have sex with Sherlock Holmes. He shook his head violently. He had to push the dream out of his mind and forget about it.

But John couldn't forget about the dream, not when he had evidence of it right there between his legs. That had been for Sherlock, and as much as the thought of being hard for another boy embarrassed him, he couldn't help but feel a little bit pleased.

—

When John woke in the morning, he was exhausted. He did not want to get out of bed. Groaning, he rolled over and covered his head with his pillow. After a few minutes, he sighed and pulled himself from under the covers. Judging by how high the sun was in the sky, John guessed it was nearly noon. It was no wonder his was so tired; he had seriously overslept. Yawning, he made his way to the bathroom, turning on the shower.

As the water heated up, he went back to the bed and lifted the sheets. He was relieved to find there were no telltale stains from his previous night's dream. Sighing and rubbing his forehead, John gathered a change of clean clothes and returned to the bathroom. The room was steamy, and the minute he stepped in his exposed skin was covered in a sticky film. With a huge yawn, John pulled his shirt over his head, it was the one he had worn the day before and it was wrinkled from being slept in. He ran a hand through his ruffled hair and yawned again. Next he tugged off his jeans and pants, and stepped under the water, his back arching as the hot spray hit it.

His muscles relaxed as his body got used to the temperature of the shower. He sighed and tilted his head back, closing his eyes as he wet his hair. Suddenly they flew open.

"Shit," he hissed to himself, shaking his head. He was going to go for a run that morning. Damn his over sleeping. Well, he would just have to take another shower when he got back. Turning off the water, John stepped out of the shower, wet, but no cleaner than he had been when he stepped in.

Toweling his body and hair dry, he pulled on his clean pants and went back to his room, crouching in front of the chest of drawers and pulling out a pair of sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt. Once dressed, John walked to the bedside table and picked up his iPod, tucking it away in the pouch pocket of the sweatshirt.

"Mrs Hudson," he called and he took the steps two at a time. "Mrs Hudson, I'm going for a run."

"On an empty stomach, dear?" Mrs Hudson called from what sounded like the living room.

John made his way in that direction and popped his head into the room. Sure enough, there was Mrs Hudson, gazing at him from over what looked like a romance novel. "Yeah," he said, smiling to her. "If I eat then go for a run, I'll only end up with a stitch in my side. I'll eat when I come back."

"Did you just roll out of bed, John Watson?" the woman scolded, setting the novel beside her on the sofa.

"Ah, yeah," John answered sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I got up about twenty minutes ago. Over slept." He didn't mention that he had had a wet dream about Sherlock Holmes that had woken him up some time in the wee hours of the morning; somehow he felt she didn't need to know that bit of information.

Mrs Hudson tutted then waved her hand dismissively. "Well, off you go, then."

John flashed her a quick smile before turning and jogging to the front door. As he walked down the two front steps, he pulled his iPod from his pocket and plugged himself in. He warmed up by jogging the first five or six blocks before picking up his pace. He focused on regulating his breathing and the ache of the muscles in his legs. He felt his heart beating behind his ribs and he felt the blood pumping through his body; it was exhilarating yet at the same time, relaxing.

After about a mile or so, John slowed to catch his breath and stretch his sore muscles. After a moment, he took a deep breath and continued on. Every now and then he had to dodge people on the sidewalk, though the foot traffic wasn't nearly as busy as it would have been if it were a weekend. It was Monday and people were at work, or out to lunch, so the majority of the pedestrians were tourists and other teenagers out for winter break.

Looking at the clock on his iPod, John saw that he had been out for nearly an hour and his stomach was growling fiercely. Deciding it was time to head back to Baker Street, he slowed and turned round. Somewhere in the process, he nearly ran into a man. Startled, John took two clumsy steps back and nearly tripped over his own feet.

"Oh, Jesus!" he gasped out, pulling the earbud from his right ear. The man looked equally startled, though about a thousand times better dressed. He was wearing a well-fitting grey three-piece suit and a black coat, and he clutched an umbrella in his left hand. Somehow, the man reminded John of Sherlock, but he couldn't quite place why. Once his heart was back under control, he looked up at him and smiled apologetically. "Sorry. I didn't see you."

"It's quite alright," the man said pleasantly, smiling politely. John couldn't help but feel that he was wearing something like a mask to cover his emotions, but quickly pushed the thought aside.

"Ah, yes, well…" John cleared his throat uncomfortably after a few awkward moments' silence. "I best be on my way. Sorry for nearly knocking into you." He smiled apologetically once more and began to step away.

"Have a nice day," the man in the three-piece suit called after him.

John shivered a little bit, not from the cold. Something about that man put him off and he couldn't quite place it. He began jogging again, slowly picking up his pace until he leveled out at a comfortable speed. He focused on his breathing once more, keeping it as even as he could. He didn't stop running until he was at the front steps of 221B, practically gasping for breath. Perhaps he had pushed himself a little too hard on the way back, but he wanted to put as much distance between himself and that smartly dressed man as possible. Something about him didn't settle right with John.

"Mrs Hudson, I'm back," he called breathlessly as he entered the flat, closing the door softly behind him.

Before he could hear his hostess's reply, he was taking the stairs two at a time. He wanted to shower badly, he was sweaty and hot, and his hair felt gritty and dirty when he ran his hand through it. The run had exhausted him and he could hear his stomach growling at him angrily, demanding to be fed _right now._ But John couldn't eat right now, he had to shower.

His clean clothes were still resting on the counter where he had left them when he woke; all he needed was a clean pair of pants, because he certainly wasn't going to put the pair he was wearing back on. He turned on the water, being sure not to make it as hot as it had been that morning; he needed to cool down, not boil in his skin. Once he was sure the water was at the right temperature, he pulled his sweatshirt over his head and tossed it on the bathroom floor. His sweatpants and pants swiftly followed and John was under the water, soaking his gritty hair and letting the water's cool flow rinse the sweat from his body. It felt more refreshing than it should have, but that was okay in John's mind, you could never be too refreshed.

Once he was clean by his own standards, John stepped from the shower and picked up his towel. It was still a bit damp from earlier, but he really didn't care, all he wanted was to be dry and clothed and to get food in his stomach before it began to eat him from the inside out. It was growling at him, angrier than ever at being neglected for so long.

Dressed, John made his way to the kitchen; luckily, there was one in the flat Mrs Hudson had lent him and she had stocked the fridge for him before he arrived. His hair was dripping down the back of his neck, but honestly, really, he didn't care. All he wanted was food. So, rifling through the contents of the refrigerator, John made himself a ham and cheese sandwich and grabbed a bag of crisps from the cupboard. It would have to do for now.

He sat down at the table and ate his food in silence, listening for Mrs Hudson. John couldn't hear her from his spot at the kitchen table and wondered if she was still reading her novel in the living room or if she had perhaps gone out. It really didn't matter either way, he supposed. He was planning on doing nothing for the rest of the day, probably watch telly, maybe read a little.

Finished with his meal, John stood and set his plate in the sink (he would wash it later). He gave a massive yawn, stretching his arms over his head, and padded to the living room, plopping down heavily on the sofa. He groped around for a moment before finding the television remote and flipping the telly on. He channel surfed for a few minutes before he decided there was nothing interesting on and settled for some terrible soap opera.

John couldn't help as his eyelids began to feel heavy and he started nodding off. Eventually, he just gave in and lay down on the sofa. He tucked his right hand under his chin and let his left dangle over the edge of the cushion. Within minutes he was asleep, snoring lightly, the soap opera going on dramatically without him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Sherlock paced up and down his room. He hadn't slept at all and it was nearly four in the afternoon. He had been too busy trying to figure out his feelings; he used the word grudgingly, because he had to face the fact that he did indeed have them for John Watson. It was ludicrous, that after such a small amount of time he had actual feelings for this, blonde-haired, blue-eyed football player, and it made him want to pull his hair out.

He had attempted to rebuild his walls on Saturday when they were torn down the first time, but it quickly became obvious to him that John was the one exception. John was the only person who had ever been able to break through, and he would be the only person Sherlock would ever let near him on an emotional level. There had been no point in attempting to refortify his defenses, he realized, because they would only be torn down again, in less time than it had taken on their second meeting.

Not only were there i_his own_/ifeelings to mule over, but there were also those of John. John, whom he had assumed to be not gay. Sherlock had been watching him the day before and was pleasantly surprised to find how flustered the boy was around him. He was constantly biting his lip and averting his eyes, and at one point he had blushed so noticeably that Mrs Hudson had though he'd had a fever. Of course John had said he was only hot and Sherlock had had to literally bite back the grin at the innuendo of the footballer's choice of words, worrying the inside of his cheek. When he had glance over to John, he notice that the blonde was fighting back a smile as well, indicating that a similar thought was passing through his mind.

So, John Watson, who was so obviously i_not_/igay, showed all the obvious signs of being interested in Sherlock Holmes. It was all very confusing and something Sherlock wanted to get sorted out as soon as possible.

Mind made up, Sherlock snatched his coat and scarf from his bed and pulled on his trainers. He glanced out his window to check the weather and decided he would be fine without an umbrella. Unbolting his bedroom door, he stepped cautiously out into the hall. He wasn't sure if his brother was home or not and wasn't going to take any chances.

As silently as he could, Sherlock crept down the stairs into the foyer, wincing at the sound his shoes made against the hardwood floor; a hollow sort of /i_tap tap tap._/iHe paused briefly at the door to make sure his set of house keys were in his coat pocket along with his wallet and mobile, before swiftly stepping out into the chilly December air. He flagged down a cab as soon as he could and told the cabbie the address in a hurried voice.

Sherlock tapped his fingers impatiently against his knee as they made their way slowly through the city. This was one of those times when he wanted to get to where he was going as quickly as possible.

"Excuse me," he called from the back seat. The cabbie looked at him in the rear-view mirror, a little startled. "I realize you have to make a living somehow, but I would appreciate you taking the most direct route to my destination please. I'm in a bit of a hurry. And please don't try to be clever. I have every street of this city memorized," he added.

The cabbie grumbled grudgingly, but didn't argue, and they pulled up to 221B in less the fifteen minutes. Sherlock hurried up the front steps and knocked on the door, stepping back and waiting impatiently. He heard Mrs Hudson's foot steps through the flat and when she answered, he all but shoved passed her, looking around and listening for John.

"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said, concern colouring her voice. "Is something the matter?"

"John. I need to speak with John. Where is he?" Sherlock said, his words coming out in a rush. He turned to Mrs Hudson.

"He's upstairs. Came back from a run and hasn't come down since," Mrs Hudson answered, worry still apparent on her sweet features. "Is something wrong, Sherlock?"

"No, Mrs Hudson, everything is fine. I just need to speak with John." And Sherlock took the stairs two at a time. He was at the door that led into the flat John had claimed as his for the duration visit in no time at all and paused to check that it wasn't locked. To his relief, it was indeed unlocked, saving him some trouble.

As quietly as he could, Sherlock opened the door. He didn't want to startle John with his sudden presence. But then, perhaps he should have knocked first…. Ah well, it was too late now. He stepped into the flat and found that the telly was on and that John was asleep on the sofa, his right hand tucked adorably under his chin and his left dangling over the edge of the cushion. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and let it out slowly, smiling.

He shut the door silently and toed off his shoes. He didn't want to wake the sleeping John with the sound of his trainers tapping loudly across the floor. When he made it to the sofa, there was no place for him to sit but the floor (John's body was stretched out over the majority of the piece of furniture), so Sherlock pushed the coffee table back a little and sat. He was actually kind of glad to have stumbled upon the footballer napping; it gave him time to think about what he would say, since he hadn't bothered to think of anything clever during the cab ride. He braced his elbows on his knees and steepled his hands together, placing the tips of his fingers against his lips, and thought.

The only way he could think of starting the conversation that was sure to come was to open with something along the lines of, "John Watson, you confuse me," –but that would be admitting he got confused— "you are obviously not gay, yet you give off signs that make it seem like you're interested in me." Sherlock shook his head. That sounded stupid, even he could see that. He groaned quietly into his hands; people were not his area of expertise, he didn't know how to interact with them, and he certainly didn't know how to go about asking another person whether they fancied him or not.

Some sixty or so minutes later when John began to stir and Sherlock still hadn't thought of anything clever to say, Sherlock's heart leapt into this throat. It was an unusual feeling, and he didn't like it at all. He didn't like feeling nervous. It was uncomfortable.

Sherlock watched as John's eyes fluttered open. They were a deep blue that was so distracting they caused him to lose his train of thought completely. It was only when John gave what sounded suspiciously like a squeal of surprise that he looked away from those eyes and focused on the blonde's face. There, there was shock, but there was something else too. A pleasantly surprised expression? Sherlock swallowed hard. John was actually pleased to see him.

"Sherlock," John said slowly, pushing himself up onto his left elbow. "What're you doing here?"

"I—um—I needed to speak to you about—something…." Sherlock had the hardest time focusing on his words when John was looking at him so intently with those deep blue eyes.

"How long have you been waiting for?" John asked, and Sherlock swore he could hear something like concern in his voice.

"Um—an hour? I think." He swallowed a hard lump that was beginning to form in his throat.

"And?" John said at length, sitting up further. His hair was tousled from sleep and Sherlock wet his lips, resisting the urge to reach out and push his hand through that blonde mess.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. "What? O-oh, right. Ah….Well. I'm not sure how to word it—exactly." He bit his lip, cursing himself for letting one person affect his thinking process so much. It was unnerving and a little bit frightening.

"Just spit it out," John suggested. He doesn't say it in an impatient or harsh way, he really meant it as a suggestion. Just get it out. Sherlock's heart fluttered and his cheeks warmed fractionally and he hated his body for giving in to emotion.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. "John Watson," he finally said, his voice shaking noticeably. He cursed under his breath and tried again, trying to keep his voice steady. "John Watson. This is something I'm not used to dealing with." He looked up and saw John's confused expression and sighed. "Emotion—isn't something I handle very well," he tried to explain, looking down at his hands. "I usually keep emotion contained behind walls I've built up over the years, but—but you—when I met you two days ago," Sherlock shook his head, trying to grasp onto the proper words. "Um….Well, I guess you could say you shattered those walls with a single blow." He laughed shakily. "As if they were made of—of glass. I tried rebuilding, but—ah…the way you were acting yesterday, the way you looked up at me through your eyelashes…." He bit his lip. "It ripped those newly rebuilt walls right down and everything you did drove me mad. And—um—I…." Sherlock paused again, shaking his head with a rueful smile.

"What? Go on," John whispered, and Sherlock looked up at him. The blonde's cheeks were tinged pink and he looked far too adorable for his own good.

Sherlock straightened his back and continued as best he could. "John Watson. I—I was just wondering…. Would you happen to want to go to—to dinner….with me?" He looked away from John, his cheeks flushing very pink.

Everything was silent for a moment and Sherlock felt deflated. It was a ridiculous feeling, really. He shouldn't have gotten his hopes up in the first place. No, actually, he shouldn't have let his walls get battered down in the first place. That was what had ruined everything. Sherlock had been perfectly fine before those faulty walls had come crashing down.

"I understand if you don't—"

"Yes," John interrupted.

Sherlock's head snapped up. "What?" Had he heard John right?

"I said, yes," John repeated. His cheeks were even pinker and he had that charming smile on his face that had brought down Sherlock's walls in the beginning.

"Yes?" Sherlock said dumbly. "Yes, you'll go to dinner with me?"

John laughed and leaned forward, resting his forehead against Sherlock's. "Yes, I'll go to dinner with you. Don't make me repeat it again."

Sherlock could barely contain his excitement. He could feel the smile pull at his lips and couldn't help but wind his arms around John's torso, hugging him tightly. He felt silly with happiness. He was going on a date with John Watson! He could have jumped with joy.

"When?" he half heard John mumbled. The footballer sounded drugged and when Sherlock pulled away, he found that John looked as happy as he felt.

"Sorry?"

"When will we go on this date?" John asked more clearly, a smile on his lips.

Sherlock thought for a moment, not releasing the blonde from his grasp. "How about tomorrow evening? Eight o'clock?"

John looked thoughtful and he began to feel a slight pull of worry. Was he going about this the wrong way? But to his relief the footballer smiled and seemed pleased with the way things were going.

"Eight o'clock tomorrow evening sounds great," John whispered, one of his hands wandering to Sherlock's hair, combing through it gently.

"Mmm," he purred, closing his eyes and leaning into John's hand, very much like a cat. John's fingers felt nice against his scalp. He would have liked to stay like that until the sun rose, stay there with John's fingers combing softly through his hair, down his cheek and neck. But he had to be home; there was no telling what Mycroft would do, or who he would send after him if he didn't answer his phone for another full day. It was something Sherlock preferred not to think about. Reluctantly, he pulled away from John's soft touch and opened his eyes. "Tomorrow evening, then. I have to get home. My brother will go mad if he finds I've stated out late again." He stood up and John protested, grasping the hem of his shirt.

"You can just call him," the blonde suggested, a hint of desperation and disappointment in his voice. Sherlock's heart soared. John didn't want him to leave.

"My brother is insane," he mumbled, looking down into the footballers eyes. "I'll be back tomorrow, I promise."

John bit his lip and hesitated before standing up. Sherlock watched him curiously, wondering what he was going to do. When John leaned forward and pressed his mouth softly against his own, he started, his heart leaping into his throat. When he got his bearings back together, Sherlock returned the kiss before pulling away. "I'll be back before you know it," he whispered. He was at the door, slipping his trainers on when he turned back and said, "Oh, and wear something nice." Sherlock grinned and made his leave.

—

Back at home, Sherlock took one of the longest showers he had ever taken in his life, standing under the hot spray until the water began to run cold, stepping out nearly two hours later. As he was toweling off, he was suddenly stricken with gladness that he had brought his purple button up shirt, because he didn't have any other nice clothing.

As he pulled on something comfortable, barely paying attention to his actions, his hair dripped down his back, making him shiver. He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall, 8:41pm. It was far too early to even consider sleeping, he had at least another seven hours before he would even begin to feel drowsy. So he sat down on his bed, wearing his most comfortable pair of sweat pants and one of his oldest tee-shirts, and thought. He stared at the wall, thinking, until his back began to ache. And then he laid himself down and stared at the ceiling, thinking some more. He wasn't even sure at what time exactly he fell asleep. He estimated around five or six in the morning, because before everything went black, he recalled the sky growing lighter with the dawn.

—

When Sherlock woke again, it was nearly two in the afternoon. Groaning, he rolled over and burrowed beneath his covers, trying to will sleep to wash over him again. After about twenty minutes of laying cocooned in his blankets, he sighed and sat up with a massive yawn. The sun was slanting through the curtains and he squinted against its light. He sat for a moment as the previous day's events washed over him, and his heart skipped a beat when he recalled that he had a date with John later in the evening. It was more excitement than he had ever felt in his seventeen years.

Finally he crawled out of bed, creeping to the door. Sherlock had no idea whether or not his brother had left for work or not, but he was starving and would have to risk finding out. Slowly, he made his way down the hallway, padding silently. Before descending the staircase, he peeked down, making sure the coast was clear. It was and he took the steps two at a time, avoiding the places that creaked and groaned underfoot. At the base, Sherlock paused and listened. The house was silent save for the clock ticking on the wall in the foyer. He was not about to let his guard down, however, and crept to the kitchen, peering around the door. It was completely deserted. Sighing in relief, Sherlock entered the room and meandered to the refrigerator. His stomach was growling at him angrily and it was a sensation he wanted to get rid of as soon as possible. He didn't like have his stomach calling the shots.

When he opened the refrigerator, Sherlock found eggs and sausage. He was suddenly glad that his mother had taught him how to cook when he was a child. It was virtually the only time they had ever spent together, but it had not been in vain. Sherlock was able to cook for himself when it was necessary, and the cook was on holiday until after Christmas. He didn't know what his brother was going to do about dinner on Christmas Eve, but he didn't plan on staying, so it really wasn't his problem. If he did stay, Mycroft would surely bully him into cooking all day for the family. It was simply not something he was willing to do; not for _his_ family, the despicable people they were. Sherlock would be far too tempted to poison them or something of the likes.

He pulled a clean pan from the rack hanging above the island and set it on the stove top, turning the gas flame on to medium. Humming softly to himself, he returned to the refrigerator and plucked a stick of butter from the door. Once the butter was melted on the pan, he cracked to eggs and watched as they sizzled, the whites beginning to congeal almost immediately. After a moment, he added the sausage before returning everything to the refrigerator and tossing the eggshells in the waste bin. By the time he returned to the stove, his eggs were nearly finished and he salted and peppered them, before flipping them. Next the sausage was flipped.

Sherlock grabbed a plate from the shelf and a fork from the drawer and set them on the counter. He waited for another minute, his long fingers tapping against the polished granite. When he was sure his food was finished, he scooped it onto his plate and moved to sit at the island. The eggs were good, as was the sausage.

When he was finished eating, Sherlock stood and placed his plate and cutlery in the sink. By this time, he was sure his brother was not in the house. If he had been, he would have been in the kitchen as soon as Sherlock began to cook, hounding him for breakfast. Well, perhaps not breakfast; it was about two-thirty in the afternoon after all. Without the worry of Mycroft bothering him, Sherlock took the time to go through the library. He had not been in the room in a very long time and he wondered if his mother and father had added anything new to their collection. Sherlock knew that his father kept all of the books in the library cataloged.

The library was probably his favorite room in the house aside from his own. He would have spent more time going through stacks of books as a child if not for his father and brother. They seldom let him in, mostly because that was where meetings were held. Looking back, Sherlock wondered why they never used their father's study; it would have been the more logical decision. That didn't matter now, however. He was never home, and the Monkshood library was very well-stocked.

Sherlock was disappointed to find that there were no new additions to his family's extensive collection of tomes. With a sigh, he exited the room and made his way back to his bedroom. He still had a few books under his bed that he had not had a chance to read.

—

It was nearly 6:30pm when Sherlock looked up from the volume he was reading through. Startled, he threw his book to the side, not bothering to mark his place, and scrambled about the room, grabbing this item of clothing or that. He cursed under his breath, angry that he had let himself get so absorbed in his reading. He was in the bathroom, tearing off his pajamas, and under a scalding stream of water in record time. He scrubbed his hair and body and jumped out of the shower in five minutes, tops, his heart racing a mile a minute. It was an insane feeling and he disliked it very much. Anxiety was hateful.

Back in his room, he sat down on the bed with a deep breath. He was half dressed and his hair was dripping coldly down his back, making him shiver. _You'll catch cold if you don't put a shirt on, Sherlock, _he heard Mrs Hudson scold in his mind, and his lips quirked up in a smile. He took another deep breath, trying to bring his heart rate back to a reasonable pace.

A few minutes later, Sherlock felt his heart calm and his blood pressure return to normal. This emotion thing was exhausting, he decided, standing up and pulling on his shirt, buttoning it slowly.

7:15pm. Sherlock decided it was time to go; he wasn't going to be late because of London traffic. He put his scarf and coat on, and left his room, wallet and keys weighing in one pocket, mobile weighing in the other. As he made his way down the stairs, he had the unfortunate luck of running into his brother, who must have just returned from the office. He groaned inwardly. It had been three days since he had seen Mycroft, and those three days had been wonderful. He was not going to let his obnoxious older brother ruin his evening before it even had the chance to begin.

"Good evening, Sherlock," Mycroft drawled. Sherlock gritted his teeth at the way the man took in his appearance, making deductions. "Going somewhere?"

"Yes, Mycroft, I am," Sherlock said in a hard voice. "If you'll excuse me, I have to be leaving or I'll be late." He paused. "Having a night in? Don't cheat on that diet of yours, I know the cakes in the pantry can be awfully tempting, but do try to be strong." Not waiting for his brother's retort, Sherlock brushed passed him and out the front door, shutting it snuggly behind him.

Sherlock hailed a cab as quickly as he could, instructing the cabbie to take the most direct route, and not to be clever, much the same as he had done the previous day. On the way, though, a thought occurred to him.

"Stop here, please," he said, sounding a little breathless. "Here!" The cab came to a stop and Sherlock stepped out. "Just wait. I'll be right back."

—

Mrs Hudson let Sherlock into the flat, smiling at him.

"He's upstairs getting ready, dear," she told him quietly, gesturing to the stairs. "Been in a bit of a tizzy all afternoon."

Sherlock nodded, swallowing nervously. He made his way slowly up the creaky old stairs, counting them as he went. One, two, three….. What would John be wearing tonight? Seven, eight, landing…. Would he be as nervous as Sherlock felt? Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…. He was at the door. Hesitantly, Sherlock raised his hand and knocked. He waited for a moment then heard a loud _thump_ and a groan, then John called out, "Just a second!" There was muffled cursing and ten seconds later the door was flung open to reveal the footballer.

Sherlock drew a breath, looking John up and down. He looked amazing. He was dressed in a black button-up shirt and grey trousers and a coat the didn't quite go with the shirt or the trousers, and it was absolutely adorable. The top button of his shirt was undone, revealing his throat. His hair was perfectly ruffled and his cheeks were tinged light pink. Sherlock swallowed, smiling.

"You look—um…." Sherlock couldn't find the right words to describe the way John looked to him.

The blonde's cheeks tinted darker and he looked away, chewing his bottom lip. "It was the only nice thing I brought with me. I hope it's okay?"

"No, it's perfect. You look amazing." Sherlock was pleased when John smiled up at him. Blinking, he gathered his thoughts enough to bring out what he had hidden behind his back. He looked down at the single red rose in his hand, then back at John. He cleared his throat. "I know it's a bit of a—er…cliché, but I brought you this." He handed the flower to John.

John took it, his eyes slightly wider than usual. He brought the rose to his face and drew in a deep breath, smiling. "Thank you," he said quietly, gazing at Sherlock with those eyes. "It's beautiful. Come in while I put it in some water?" He gestured to the kitchen.

Sherlock nodded and followed him into the flat. He watched as the footballer found a thin vase and filled it with water, placing the rose in it. He set it in the middle of the kitchen table and turned to Sherlock, smiling happily. "So," he said, leaning with his right hand on the table. "Where are we going?"

"Oh, that's a bit of a surprise. But let's get going? I have a cab waiting outside, and the meter is running." Sherlock held out his hand to John, who took it gladly. He laced their fingers together and it felt _right._

They made their way down the stairs and Sherlock called out, "Mrs Hudson. We're off! Might be back late."

"Okay. Have fun, you two," she called from what sounded like the living room.

Sherlock opened the door for John and they stepped out into the cold night air. He noticed the blonde shiver a little and wrapped his arm around his shoulder, steering him to the waiting cab. Once John was safely in the vehicle, Sherlock slid in beside him, buckling his seatbelt. He gave the cabbie the address and sat back, watching John in the lowlight.

John gazed out the window, watching the streetlight pass, a content smile on his lips. Sherlock blinked and pulled his eyes away from him, staring out his own window. He couldn't believe this was actually happening to him. That he, Sherlock Holmes, was on a date with someone, that he had even _asked_ that someone on the date. He couldn't believe how strongly he felt for John and he had barely known him a total of twenty-four hours. He drew in a breath, resting his forehead against the cool glass of the window. Everything was just a bit overwhelming.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock jumped at the soft sound of John's voice and the gentle hand on his arm. He looked over at the blonde and melted a little. His features were soft with concern, even Sherlock could see that in the semi-darkness. "Are you okay?"

"Couldn't be better," he breathed, his eyes tracing over John's face, trying to memorize every line, every curve, every angle. John was perfect in his mind's eye.

—

Sherlock chuckled at John's reaction to the restaurant. He had to admit it was a little bit pricey, but then, it wasn't his own money he was spending, so he really didn't care, as long as he gave John the best. It was strange to think of wanting to give everything to one person. This would take some getting used to.

"Order whatever you like," Sherlock told him, smiling faintly as he gazed over the menu. This was one of his parents' favorite places and he and Mycroft had grown up coming here. Everything on the menu was delicious.

"But everything is so expensive," John remarked sheepishly, his eyes raking over the different meals and their costs. "Really, Sherlock, how can you afford this?"

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, scoffing. "Don't worry about it. And don't look at the prices, just order what sounds good. Everything here is fantastic. My family and I used to come here often."

John looked up, an interested expression on his face, and Sherlock swallowed. He knew John wanted to know more about his family, but really, he had no desire to dip into that conversational pot. He shouldn't have brought them into the picture.

"What's your family like?" John finally ventured to ask, resting his chin in his right hand.

"Self-absorbed," Sherlock said dryly, his eyes narrowing fractionally.

John seemed a little taken aback by his tone, and blinked. "Oh-kay…. Well…. Mrs Hudson says you have a brother?"

"Unfortunately."

"And he practically _is _the British government?" John pushed.

"Yes," Sherlock hissed, his fists clenching. "And because of that, he thinks he's the most important man on the face of the planet. I'd say the world would be better off without him, but probably some other dickhead politician would just take his place."

John stared at him, mouth open slightly. They were silent for sometime when John finally seemed to pluck up the courage to ask, "Why don't you and he get on?"

"Look," Sherlock snapped, harsher than he had meant. "We just don't. Can we not get into this right now?"

He looked up at John and found that he looked indignant and a little hurt. "Well, pardon me for wanting to get to know you better," he shot back, his eyes turning slightly colder.

Sherlock sighed, rubbing his forehead. "John," he said quietly. "John. This is not the way I wanted to start off the evening." He looked up. "My family and I don't really see—eye to eye, I guess you could say. If it were up to my parents, I would be locked up right now, that's why they shipped me off to a school three hours from home, it was the closest thing they could come up with. Because of that, I don't really enjoy chatting about them. Savey?" He looked at John closely, praying that the boy understood and wouldn't push any further.

John looked like he wanted to say something more on the subject, but seemed to think better of it and nodded. After a moment he did say quietly, "You know, Sherlock…. It's not a bad thing to let people in."

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh a little bit, smiling fondly at the footballer. "You seem to forget, Mr Watson, that I'm still new to this emotion game. I don't quite follow the rules yet. Besides. No one gets in without special permission."

Before John could say anything more, their waitress walked up to their table and they ordered. When she left, Sherlock took the opportunity to change the subject, turning the spotlight on John.

"So, John," he said smoothly, lacing his fingers together like a bridge and resting his chin on them. "You're a football player, are you?" He grinned.

John's cheeks coloured in a lovely way, and Sherlock's grin spread. He knew that John had guess that he was thinking about the way he looked in his football kit.

John cleared his throat and met Sherlock's eyes. "I am," he said, his voice was steady, but Sherlock could just detect the slight tremor beneath the calm exterior.

"And," Sherlock pressed, keeping his tone aloof, "are you any good?"

"I've been told I'm decent, yeah." John smiled, glancing up at Sherlock in an almost irresistible way.

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement. "I've never been one for sports," he commented, sitting back in his chair, his eyes never straying from John's face. "Never been good at them. Father was so disappointed." He chuckled, clearly pleased at the thought. "I could run though, still can."

"Do you run track at your school?" John asked, his tone interested.

Sherlock's eyes raked up and down his face, memorizing the way the dim light of the restaurant played off his dark blue eyes and threw part of his features in shadows. He almost didn't catch John's question, he was so preoccupied with cataloging ever detail he could.

"Ah—um…." He blinked to clear his thoughts. "No, I don't. Considered it for a while, but decided against it. Too many people to deal with. And the coach in unbearable." Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste as he thought of the track coach. He really was a disgusting man, and Sherlock took no pleasure from being in or anywhere near his company.

"Do you like your school?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. Did he like MonkshoodAcademy? That wasn't a difficult question to answer. "No."

John cocked his head. "Why not?"

"I've never liked any of the schools I've ever been to. Mummy always wanted the best for Mycroft and myself, sent us to 'only the finest.' Her words, not mine." Sherlock clucked his tongue, furrowing his brow as he thought of the way his mother had always shipped him off to this boarding school or that one, because MonkshoodAcademy was not the first. Mycroft always got to stay close to home, Mummy and Father preferred him over Sherlock. He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "That and the teachers are all idiots and the students aren't much better. It's all so dull."

He looked up and found John watching him intently. Almost instantly he was lost in those eyes and didn't catch the boy's next question.

"I'm sorry, what?" he mumbled, his eyes staying fixed on John's until the blonde looked away, his cheeks colouring prettily.

"Are the girls there pretty? Have you ever been interested in any of them?" John blushed deeper at having to repeat his question.

Sherlock couldn't hold back his laugh. It really was an idiotic question, but John couldn't have known that. He cleared his throat, trying to control himself, but his smile remained firmly on his face. "The girls are attractive, sure, but I've never been interested in any of them. Although, I did notice that one of them was pregnant when I was leaving the day break started, that was interesting. But I suspect that's not exactly what you mean."

It was John's turn to laugh. Sherlock liked the way it sounded. "No, that's not quite what I meant." The blonde smiled at him.

"Well, then. To answer your question properly, no, I've never been interested in any of the girls at Monkshood. None of the boys, either," he added. He could practically see the question jumping around on John's lips. "Up until very recently, I didn't think myself—ah….capable of being interested in anyone. You've proven me terribly wrong, though." He looked at John intently. "I wonder what it is about you that's so different than everyone else," Sherlock mused, mostly to himself.

Their food arrived just then, and Sherlock sat up a little bit straighter.

"Mmm, smells great," John murmured, picking up his silverware.

—

When the two left the restaurant it was very late, but it had been worth it, Sherlock thought, to see the expression on John's face while he ate his food. He knew the boy hadn't ever eaten anything that fine, and he enjoyed being able to give it to him, at least every once in a while.

It was chilly outside, and Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's shoulder, pulling him close against his side as he hailed a cab. When the two were seated in the back, he turned to his date.

"Did you have a good time?" he asked, trying not to let the anxiety leak through into his voice. He desperately hoped John had enjoyed himself.

"I had a wonderful time," John said, leaning against Sherlock's shoulder, smiling.

Sherlock felt a strange heat build up in his chest and he had to look away from John's face, biting his lip. He had never been happy because someone else was happy. It was a strange sensation, and one he found he liked, as long as it was John he was making happy, and no one else. No one would ever get as close as John would become. No one would be able to get him to open up the way John did. His walls were as strong as ever to those who weren't John. Sherlock sighed and rested his cheek against the blonde's hair, closing his eyes. Emotions were an exhausting thing to deal with, he had no idea how people managed with them every day.

When he felt John's fingers lace with his, Sherlock opened his eyes and gazed down at their entwined hands. He noted the way their skin tones contrasted and found that he liked it very much. Closing his eyes again, he breathed in deeply, taking in John's sent, trying to keep it with him for as long as possible.

All too soon their cab ride was over and they stepped out into the cold. Sherlock was reluctant to release John's hand and he could tell that John was just as reluctant.

"Come inside for a little while?" John suggested, steering Sherlock slightly to the door. "Please?"

The second Sherlock looked into those blue eyes, he knew he had lost. Any idea he had of getting home at a reasonable hour was lost in the wind and he could only nod his head, letting the footballer pull him into the warmth of the flat. Inside, only the entrance light was on, which meant Mrs Hudson was probably asleep, so the two of them crept as silently as they could up the creaky stairs. Once the door to the upper flat was shut and bolted, their coats shed and hung on the wrack, and their shoes toed off and kicked aside, Sherlock looked at John, worrying his lip.

He desperately wanted to kiss him, but didn't dare move. He didn't want to frighten away the only person he had ever been remotely interested in, that would be just too much. So he let John pull him to the sofa and sat down beside him, never loosening his grasp on John's hand. Sherlock watched him closely, tracing his facial features down to his throat where the shirt obscured his path. He was brought back to reality when he felt John's head press against his chest, his hair tickling his chin.

"What are we doing, Sherlock?" John said breathlessly, laughing in a quiet, almost desperate way. "How can I feel this way about you already? I've only known you for, what? Three days? Four days?" He laughed again and Sherlock felt it vibrate through his chest.

"How do you feel about me?" he whispered almost inaudibly, he was surprised John had even heard him.

The blonde sat up and looked him in the eye. "Like I want to press my fingers through your hair and just kiss you until you can't remember your own name," he said at length, and Sherlock shivered at how husky his voice sounded.

"Then why don't you?" Sherlock said in that same inaudible whisper, placing his hands delicately on John's waist, pulling him closer.

And they were together, John's hands combing through Sherlock's hair, his mouth melting against Sherlock's. And it was too good to be true. Sherlock's arms wound around John's middle, pulling him closer still.

John's lips moved perfectly against Sherlock's and Sherlock shivered as the blonde licked at them, letting his teeth skim across the sensitive skin. He opened his mouth, only slightly, and John's tongue was already pressing itself in, demanding more. Sherlock happily obliged, parting his lips further to deepen the kiss. He could taste the remnants of their dinner in John's mouth and groaned quietly, pressing himself closer against the footballer.

After a moment more, John pulled away, panting a little. Sherlock didn't want the contact to end and unable to help himself, he kissed down John's jaw to his throat, his tongue darting out every now and then. He heard the blonde gasp and the hands in his hair tightened.

"Have you ever done anything like this, Sherlock?" John gasped out, pulling a little on Sherlock's curls. Sherlock had to admit, he liked that a little more than he should.

"What do you mean?" he breathed, not removing his lips from John's neck. He ran his tongue from the depression above John's collarbone to the hollow just behind his ear, enjoying the shiver the action caused and the salty taste of John's skin.

John let out a whimper, tilting his head and baring his neck further. "I mean _this_," he said breathlessly. "What we're doing."

"Oh," Sherlock said blankly, pulling back to look into John's eyes. He saw there, disappointment that he had stopped and curiosity. "No, I haven't," he admitted. "It's not a difficult thing to figure out, though. The mechanics are fairly straight forward. It isn't exactly brain surgery."

He didn't know why, but he was pleased to hear John chuckle. It brought a fluttery sensation to his throat and stomach. "Are you sure?" John asked through the light laughter. "Because you're very good at it."

To say Sherlock was pleased would have been an understatement. The teen excelled in nearly everything he did, excluding social and sport activities, and maybe art, Sherlock wasn't sure how well he would do at art, but to learn that he was good at this, kissing, off all things, was something that satisfied him very much, especially knowing that John thought so. He didn't know why John's opinion of him mattered so much. It was a little frustrating in itself, knowing that he got such happiness from being told by another person that he was good at something. Sherlock never would have felt that way if, say, Mycroft commented on his violin skills. He would have simply scoffed at him and said something along the lines of, "Thank you, Mycroft, but I know when I'm good at something. I don't need your praise." However, it was very different with John.

"Would you like me to continue?" Sherlock purred, nipping gently at John's earlobe.

"Oh god yes," was John's reply and Sherlock chuckled quietly, lowering his mouth back to the other's, kissing him gently.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

John could have pinched himself. There he was, sitting on the sofa in the upper flat of 221B Baker Street on his winter holiday, with Sherlock Holmes' lips whispering teasingly against his neck. He had to be dreaming. And if he was dreaming, he never wanted to wake up, ever; he wanted to live in that dream, just the way they were for the rest of his life.

He had just made up his mind that this would be okay with him, when his neck was bitten in a particularly sensitive spot. His heart leapt and before he could stop it escaping, a breathy moan left his mouth. His cheeks burned at the realization that such a needy sound had come from him, but before he had enough time to dwell too much on it, Sherlock had repeated the bite and, again, a similarly needy sound was dragged from his lips.

"Stop that," he complained, shooting a half-hearted scowl down at Sherlock. What was supposed to be an irritated voice, sounded, he realized, more like the voice of someone who, indeed, did not want the biting to stop. John blushed.

"But why?" Sherlock said into John's neck, looking up at him, his eyes clearly laughing. "You make such pretty noises. I like it." As if to prove a point, he moved he mouth to an area nearly at the back of John's neck and skimmed his teeth along it, causing John to shudder against his will, before nipping playfully and sucking.

John's eyes snapped wide and he groaned, clutching a fistful of Sherlock's silky purple shirt in both hands. He hadn't even realized he was sensitive there, but then, how would he? He was usually the one giving all the attention, not receiving. Rarely, did any of the girls he'd dated attack his neck as thoroughly as Sherlock seemed to want to. And never had they drawn from his mouth the sounds that Sherlock had. He decided it was actually nice to have the attention, but he told himself that he _would_ draw noises just as needy from the lips of Sherlock Holmes, if not tonight, then soon.

Panting rather heavily, his heart racing, John resituated himself so that he was straddling Sherlock's lap, his arms wrapped tightly around his neck. He moved his mouth back to Sherlock's, biting at the raven-haired boy's bottom lip, pulling him into the kiss. He felt a tongue dart against his lips and parted them, welcoming Sherlock into his mouth.

A pair of arms tightened around his waist and his body was pressed even closer against Sherlock's. John pulled away from Sherlock's mouth, gasping for breath, and the other immediately laid siege to his exposed neck. He tilted his head back as Sherlock kissed from his chin down his Adam's apple and on to the hollow of his throat, trying desperately to fill his lungs with an adequate amount of oxygen. But every time he seemed to get his breath back, Sherlock would run his teeth, or his lips, or his tongue over a sensitive spot at the crook of his neck, or the pulse-point under his jaw, or just behind his ear, and John would loose it again, as if it were being sucked from his body.

John let out a low moan as Sherlock licked from the hollow of his throat back up to his chin, kissing its underside. Without his consent, his hips rolled against Sherlock's and the other froze. For a moment, the footballer was afraid he would be thrown off Sherlock's lap and that would be the end of that, but a second later, Sherlock had buried his face in the curve of John's neck and moaned in an almost animalistic way. It sent a shiver down John's spine.

He suddenly found himself on his back with Sherlock gazing down at him, his usually calculating blue eyes nearly unrecognizable. They were soft and slightly glassy with lust and John saw the hint of an emotion in them and he didn't quite understand why it was there: fear. It made Sherlock look vulnerable and suddenly, all John wanted to do was wrap his arms around him and protect him from the evils in the world.

"You okay?" he whispered, gazing up at Sherlock, letting his eyes memorize every line, every shadow, every angle.

"I—" Sherlock cut himself off, uncertainty in his eyes. Finally he nodded. "I'm fine," he whispered, lowering his body so that they were touching from groin to chest, supporting his weight on his forearms, which were placed at either side of John's head.

"Are you sure?" John couldn't bear to raise his voice above a whisper, it didn't seem right. He lifted a hand and ran his fingers through Sherlock's dark hair.

"I couldn't possibly be surer."

And his lips were back on John's. John let out a pleased hum as their kiss heated up. His hands found their way to Sherlock's waist and he gripped the fabric of the boy's purple shirt tightly, holding him in place. He felt fingers combing through his hair and practically melted at the feeling. John had always liked it when the girls he had dated ran their fingers through his hair, but for some reason the feeling was amplified at Sherlock's touch.

Unable to stop himself, John pulled Sherlock's shirt from his trousers and attentively ran his hands over the skin of Sherlock's lower back. It was soft and warm and it felt extremely nice against his fingers. A low noise reverberated from Sherlock's throat at John's touch and his was inclined to continue, smoothing his hands further up the raven-haired boy's back. Sherlock shuddered, his back arching slightly so that their bodies were pressed closer together, and it was just the reaction John was looking for. On an impulse, he dragged his fingernails down Sherlock's sides and Sherlock gasped, reacting almost violently, his body jerking, serving to successfully grind their hips together all too hotly.

John bit his lip and pressed the side of his face into the sofa cushion, moaning rather loudly, and Sherlock did the same, hiding his face against John's neck. They lay there like that, breathing heavily, for a few minutes, John staring up at the ceiling, Sherlock breathing into John's skin. Finally the blonde spoke.

"Think we got a little too hot 'n' heavy," he mumbled, the tips of his ears heating up.

Sherlock nodded, not lifting his head, and mumbled something incoherent into John's neck.

"What was that?" John asked, his index finger doodling little figure-eights on Sherlock's exposed lower back.

The other turned his head just enough to be heard. "I said, I agree, but it was something I definitely thoroughly enjoyed."

John was suddenly glad that Sherlock had his face buried against his neck, because his cheeks burned with blush and his ears felt like they were on fire. Of course, he was sure Sherlock could feel the heat radiating from his face, but at least he could pretend he didn't this way.

"I'm not saying that it wasn't—erm…good. Because it was. I just think that we were—ah." He cleared his throat nervously. "Going a little bit too fast," he finished, his face growing redder still. Just then Sherlock yawned loudly, and John could feel his breath hot against his skin. He laughed quietly. "Am I boring you, Sherlock Holmes?" John asked, pretending to be indignant.

"Of course not," Sherlock replied tartly, his body suddenly feeling heavy on John's, as if all of his muscles relaxed, and, as it turned out, that was exactly what happened. "You could never bore me, John Watson. The past few days are just catching up to me is all."

"What do you mean?" John asked, pushing his hand absentmindedly through the raven curls pressed against his neck. Sherlock hesitated, and it seemed to John that he was debating on whether or not to tell the truth. "Sherlock," he said, his voice thick with a warning that said something along the lines of "if you don't tell me the truth, Sherlock Holmes, I will push you off of this couch and you can sleep on the floor."

Sherlock sighed reluctantly. "Oh fine. I slept for the first time in three days last night, and I'm just a little bit drained. But to be fair, it was all your fault."

"Oh, my fault, was it?" John laughed, shaking his head. "And how is that?"

"I couldn't get you out of my head."

For once, John was at a lose for words. He bit his lip and after a while, sat up, pulling Sherlock with him. He looked into those icy-blue eyes and they were no longer glassy with lust, but completely bottomless in Sherlock's exhaustion, and he seemed to see straight into the boy's mind. It was beautiful and intimidating all at the same time. John saw the gears turning and clicking into place as Sherlock figured him out. And all too suddenly he realized what the look of fear had meant earlier. Sherlock Holmes was frightened of letting another person so close to him, frightened that, in the end, he would end up getting hurt, frightened to trust another person so unconditionally, and most of all, frightened at the idea of possibly falling for someone. He looked away for a moment, feeling like he had intruded on something far to intimate for him to have seen, before taking Sherlock by the shoulders and standing him up.

"Bed," he said in a firm but gentle voice, leading the other to his bedroom.

Once in the room, he began to unbutton Sherlock's shirt.

"I can undress myself, you know," Sherlock said. It seemed like he wanted his voice to be snide, but the rudeness slipped away as sleep pushed itself into his mind, so John simply ignored him and continued on, pulling the purple shirt off and tossing it on the floor. Next he undid the button on Sherlock's jeans and unzipped his fly, blushing pink as his pulled them down and Sherlock stepped out of them, leaving him standing in only a pair of blue-grey boxer shorts and his socks.

When the other began to reach for the buttons on his shirt, John grabbed hold of his wrists, pulling his hands away. "Uh-uh. Into bed." Sherlock began to protest. "Now, Sherlock. You look like you're about to fall asleep where you stand."

"Yes, mummy," Sherlock grumbled, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull his socks off, before he crawled under the covers.

John undressed slowly and turned to the boy in his bed. He was laying on his side, facing away from the footballer, and it seemed as if he had already fallen asleep. John sighed and scooted in beside him, trying carefully not to jostle the bed. He laid on his side, back facing Sherlock, and reached over to turn off the lamp. Once the light was out, he closed his eyes and took deep breath, releasing it slowly and letting the darkness wash over him.

Just as he was about to drift off to sleep, Sherlock spoke.

"John?" he whispered, and John could feel the bed shake and heard the sheets shift as Sherlock rolled onto his other side.

"Hmm?" John mumbled, not moving or opening his eyes. His body felt too heavy to function.

"Have you ever done that with another male?" Sherlock's voice was soft and John had to strain his ears to catch the words.

"What?"

"What we did." And as if to make a point, John felt Sherlock place a gentle kiss to the back of his neck.

He shivered, and shifted so he could look over at him. In the gloom it was difficult to make anything out, but John could just barely distinguish Sherlock's silhouette from the rest of the shadows. "No, I haven't," he admitted.

Sherlock was silent for a long while, and John thought he had fallen asleep until he spoke again. "It wasn't bad, was it? Kissing me, instead of some girl?"

John thought he heard a slight injection of venom in the way Sherlock said "some girl" and it made him smile. "It wasn't bad at all. Not in the slightest. When I compare my experiences with those girls with my experience from tonight, with you, the girls don't even compare."

"You're just saying that," the raven-haired boy grumbled.

"I'm being completely honest, Sherlock. They never drew even half the sounds from my mouth that you managed to." He blushed.

The two were silent for a few minutes, then John felt Sherlock's warm chest press against his back and a pair of arms wound around his waist, holding him close.

"Goodnight, John," he whispered, nuzzling his face against the back of John's neck.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," John sighed, finally drifting off to sleep.

—

When John woke in the morning, the first thing that he noticed was that it was considerably later than he would have liked; he could tell by the way the sun slanted into his room that it was at least mid afternoon. The second thing he noticed was that there was a pair of arms wrapped firmly around his waist, a stomach pressed against his back, and a knee wedged between his legs. And the third and final thing John noticed was how completely content he was, just laying there with Sherlock Holmes folded around him. He drew in a deep breath, letting it out as a sleepy sigh, and closed his eyes again.

There was a low hum from behind him and John could feel Sherlock's breath against his neck. "Good morning, John," the other whispered, pressing his lips to John's shoulder.

"Mmm," John murmured, not opening his eyes or moving. After a minute, he rolled onto his back and smiled. "It's not exactly morning anymore, Sherlock."

Sherlock strained his neck to look over his shoulder and at the alarm clock resting on the bedside table. "Oh. I suppose it's not, is it? It's rather late." He chuckled, turning back to the footballer. "Well, good afternoon, then, John."

John chuckled sleepily and sat up, stretching his arms over his head with a massive yawn. He ran a hand through his hair, and glanced over at Sherlock, who was watching him closely, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

"What?"

"Hm? Oh nothing, just thinking." Sherlock smiled at him, sitting up as well.

"What about?" John asked, bumping his shoulder playfully against Sherlock's before throwing the covers off of himself and standing up. He wobbled a bit before catching his balance and making his way to the chest of drawers.

"Nothing in particular."

For some reason, John didn't believe him, but he didn't push. He stood up with a fresh change of clothes and walked to the bathroom before hesitating, glancing back to the bed, where Sherlock still sat.

"I'm going to have a shower, but I could find you something to wear first, if you like? I might have a shirt that will fit, but I'm afraid you're rather a bit taller than me, so all of my trousers will be too short." He bit his lip.

Sherlock smiled, causing John's heart to leap into his throat, and nodded. "That would great, thanks," he said, wrapping his arms around his long legs. "Don't worry about the trousers, though, I'll just wear the ones from last night, they should still be reasonably fresh."

"Okay," John mumbled, setting his own clothes on the bed and returning to the drawers to fetch another shirt. There were several that he knew were fitted on him and would surely fit Sherlock, even if they were a bit loose. He pulled out a white tee-shit and held it up, thinking. Finally he nodded to himself and stood up. "This should do, I think." He handed the shirt to Sherlock and gathered his things. "I'll be out in a few minutes, then you can shower if you want."

Sherlock just nodded, keeping his gaze fixed on the wall opposite the bed.

—

When he returned from the bathroom, John found Sherlock sprawled out across the bed, head dangling over the edge. He leaned against the doorjamb and grinned at him.

"What on earth are you doing, Sherlock?" he asked, pushing himself from the molding and into the room, toward him.

"Bored," was the reply.

"What?"

"Bored, John. You took a long time," Sherlock whined, rolling onto his stomach.

"I was in the shower for five minutes," John said, his voice coloured with disbelief. "Well, anyhow, you can use the bathroom now. I think there's a spare toothbrush under the sink, and the toothpaste is in the cupboard."

Sherlock jumped up and brushed past him, into the bathroom. He emerged a moment later with a toothbrush in his mouth.

"You're not going to shower?" John asked, perching on the edge of the bed, watching the raven-haired boy as he brushed his teeth.

"Nah," Sherlock said through a mouthful of toothpaste. "Ah shawa wh-n ah ge' h-ohn."

John suddenly felt panic fall like a stone into his stomach. He fidgeted with the bedspread, twisting it between his fingers. He didn't want Sherlock to leave so soon. He had been counting on spending the day with him, granted, most of the day was already spent sleeping, but that didn't count, damn it! He chewed on the inside of his cheek.

"You're not leaving now, are you?" he finally asked, peeking up at Sherlock from under his eyelashes. He had retreated to the bathroom to rinse his mouth.

When he returned, his eyes were calculating and John looked away, his cheeks colouring slightly. He knew Sherlock would be able to read him like a book.

"You don't want me to leave." It was a statement, not a question. John blushed brighter.

He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah," he finally admitted, letting his hand drop into his lap. He didn't look up, keeping his eyes fixed on the dark blue of the bedspread. When he felt soft fingers against his cheek, he looked up, startled. Sherlock was standing in front of him, his eyes still sharp, but distinctly soft around the edges.

"I won't leave if you don't want me to," he said, and he leaned down to kiss John chastely on the lips.

Sherlock pulled away before John even had time to react, and was tugging on the tee-shirt and the previous night's jeans. John had been right. While the shirt had fit him perfectly, clinging to his chest and stomach, it hung off of Sherlock's thin frame. It was rather attractive, really, and John couldn't help himself. When Sherlock walked within an arm's reach, the blonde grabbed him by his denim clad hips and pulled him onto his lap, ensnaring his waist in his arms. Before a gasp of shock even had time to escape Sherlock's mouth, John had his lips to his throat.

"John," Sherlock gasped out, his hands grasping the footballer's shoulders tightly.

"Hmm…. Sorry. I just couldn't resist you," John whispered, nuzzling his mouth against Sherlock's skin. "Your own fault."

A short laugh left the boy on his lap. "My fault? How is it my fault?"

"For being you." And John captured Sherlock's lips with his own before he had time to say anything more.

Before anything could become too heated, however, a knock came to John's bedroom door, along with a cheerful "woo-hoo" that signaled Mrs Hudson on the other side, and the woman let herself in.

"I just wanted to know if you'd like me to make you something to eat, John," she was saying, before she stopped dead at the sight in front of her.

John jumped in surprise, looking over Sherlock's shoulder at Mrs Hudson, who looked equally surprised and was rapidly being to colour, her cheeks flushing red. She wasn't alone, though, as John's cheeks changed to an equally alarming shade of red. Sherlock merely glanced over his shoulder at the woman, as calm as can be.

"Hello, Mrs Hudson," he said in an even voice, not moving from his spot on John's lap. John was glad for it, he really didn't want the comfortable weight of his….boyfriend? to leave. He kept his hands firmly on Sherlock's hips.

"H-hello, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson stammered. "I didn't realize you were still here."

John blushed. He knew Mrs Hudson would jump to the conclusion that they had slept together. While they had, in fact, shared the same bed and Sherlock had, indeed, folded himself tightly around him, nothing sexual had occurred….well, in the bedroom. It would be a blatant lie if he said nothing sexual had happened at all the night before. But they had not had sex.

John groaned inwardly. All he wanted to do was dig himself a hole some place far away and bury himself in it. How embarrassing it was to have his hostess walk in on him snogging another boy. Of course, he had had the feeling the first day he met Sherlock that Mrs Hudson was attempting to set them up. What she had said to John just after Sherlock had left was proof enough of that. But still. What teenager wants to be walked in on when they're trying to get off with someone? John blushed even darker when the thought crossed his mind.

"I should probably—" Without finishing her sentence, Mrs Hudson took her leave, closing the door behind her.

Sherlock turned back to John, and John shouldn't have been surprised to see the smile on his lips.

"Well, that was interesting," he said, looking away from Sherlock's face, focusing his attention on his slender neck, instead. This, when he looked back, was probably not a good idea, because soon he found himself scooting back on the bed and pushing Sherlock down until he was laying.

Sherlock just looked up at him with a calm expression. It was as if he was wearing a mask and it made John want to strip it away. It would be a very long time, though, before he would ever be able to see into Sherlock's mind the way he had the previous night. Even though Sherlock had said his walls were completely down around him, John always got the feeling that it wasn't quite true, that one wall was still up, that he could see Sherlock on the other side, but when he reached for him a sheet of cellophane stopped his hand. It was maddening at times. He just wanted to take a knife and cut it apart, but he was afraid if he did that, that Sherlock would be frightened and push him away for good. But none of these thoughts were with John at the present time, they would only be discovered much later.

So in his state of determination, John bent down and kissed Sherlock feverishly, his tongue sliding along the seam of his lips. Sherlock was being stubborn, refusing to part them and John grew frustrated. He pulled back and glared down at him, only to grow even more irritated to find him smirking up at him. With a growl, John moved his mouth from Sherlock's, down his neck. He wanted to unravel Sherlock. But most of all, he wanted to elicit from Sherlock the needy noises that had been dragged from his own mouth. He bit lightly, dragging his tongue over the mark, and felt Sherlock shiver. It gave him encouragement to continue.

John kissed the place where Sherlock's neck connected with his shoulder, letting his lips barely brush against it. The raven tilted his head to the side and the tendons were suddenly taut against his mouth. Unable to stop himself, John bit down and was rewarded with a soft groan and a hand gripping tightly at his still-damp hair. Grinning, he kissed up Sherlock's neck and nudged his chin up before dragging his tongue over the glands he knew were there. When the body beneath him arched up and he heard a gasp, John sucked lightly at the spot, intent on leaving a mark. Sherlock's fingers pressed into his scalp and a moan escaped Sherlock's mouth that made a shiver run down and back up his spine.

"Damn you, John Watson," Sherlock gasped, arching his body up further.

"What for?" John asked, kissing from under Sherlock's chin to the hollow behind his ear, where he let his tongue flick out. He could feel Sherlock shudder beneath him and smiled.

"For doing this to me."

John pulled away and looked Sherlock in the eye. The other was quite pink in the face and his calculating eyes were soft but still sharp. His hair was disheveled and he was absolutely beautiful. John was suddenly struck with the realization that he was the only person who had ever seen Sherlock Holmes in this state. It was humbling, really, knowing that he was the only person Sherlock let near enough, after only four days of properly knowing one another, to see him like that. He wet his lips and leaned down, pressing an appreciative kiss to Sherlock's mouth.

"Do you want me to stop?" he breathed against them, his hands rubbing up and down his sides.

Sherlock, whether unconscious or not, rolled his hips against John's and that was that. John let out a low moan and was kissing Sherlock hotly, his hips pressing down hard against Sherlock's. The hands in his hair sent him over the edge, and he pulled away, gasping.

He heard a disappointed whine leave Sherlock's lips as he rested his forehead against his.

"Why did you stop," he demanded, his breathing ragged.

"Because if I don't stop now, I won't be able to stop later. And I wanted to take this slowly." John couldn't seem to catch his breath.

"To hell with slow," Sherlock grumbled, drawing in a huge breath.

"Sherlock," John warned, closing his eyes.

"Yes, yes, I know. Slowly," Sherlock snipped crossly. "If you're so intent on taking things slowly, then why are you still laying on top of me?"

John bristled a little at the tone of Sherlock's words, but opened his eyes slowly, raising his head slightly so he could look the boy pinned beneath him in the eye. He looked distinctly annoyed, but John could have sworn underneath he saw disappointment and something else he couldn't identify. But then again, maybe he was just imagining it.

With a huff, he rolled off of Sherlock and stood, crossing his arms over his chest. "If you don't want me on you, then I won't touch you at all," he retorted, stomping out of the room.

John knew he was acting childishly, but really, he didn't care. If Sherlock Holmes was going to get upset at him for wanting to take things slowly then that was his problem. He would just make himself some tea and carry on like he wasn't there. That'd show him.

In the kitchen, as John put the kettle on, he heard the soft sound of bare feet on the linoleum, but ignored it, continuing about his business as if there weren't another person in the room with him. He turned and found himself staring at Sherlock's throat. He didn't move for moment, his mind reeling with the desire to throw himself at the person in front of him. When his composure was gathered enough for him to step around the blockade before him, he retrieved the honey from its place in the cupboard near the refrigerator. He turned back and found Sherlock standing in his way again.

"Move," John said flatly, glaring up at him.

"No." Sherlock looked down at him with those calculating eyes and John looked away for a moment, taking a deep breath.

"Move, Sherlock," John hissed, his hand tightening around the jar of honey.

"No," Sherlock repeated and this time he took a step forward. John tensed and looked down.

He felt Sherlock's heat against his body and Sherlock's breath against his cheek, and didn't move. A hand rested lightly on his hip and John's heart fluttered without his permission. He cursed under his breath, glaring at the floor between their feet. The mate of the hand perched on his hip was ghosting against his neck, causing him to shiver.

"What did I do wrong, John?" Sherlock whispered, bending his head down so that his lips were millimeters from John's.

"Nothing," John said, turning his head after a moment. "It's nothing. Just—silly." He shook his head and smiled a little ruefully. Stepping back, he dodged around Sherlock as the kettle began whistling. "Tea?" he asked, taking two mugs from the cupboard automatically.

When Sherlock didn't answer him, John glanced over his shoulder and looked away immediately. The raven was watching him closely, more closely than anyone ever had. It made John feel like he was standing in the room naked.

"People always seem to think that just because they don't look at me, I can't see what's going on in their minds," John heard Sherlock say after a moment of silence. "But it doesn't work that way. I can see from the way your shoulders are hunched that you're trying to protect yourself and I can see from the way you won't look me in the eye and the tension in your muscles that you're upset with me."

Automatically, John straightened up, rolling his shoulders slightly, and turned to look Sherlock squarely in the face.

"Ah," Sherlock mused, he was now seated at the kitchen table. "Now you're trying to prove me wrong. But really, John. Trying to prove me wrong only proves me right." He raised an eyebrow in the most condescending way.

"You can be really hateful sometimes, has anyone every told you that?" John spat, grabbing the counter behind him for support. His eyes were hard.

"Every single day of my life," Sherlock said dryly, standing up. "Excuse me for a moment." He pulled a pack of cigarettes and lighter from his back pocket and walked from the room.

John was shocked in place for a moment then followed him, stomping just a tiny bit. "You smoke?" he demanded.

Sherlock was headed for the spare room up the stares and the fire escape that was attached to the room.

"Yes," Sherlock replied shortly. "Problem?"

**Author's Note:**

**I'm not going to lie. This is probably my least favorite chapter that I have written. Not sure why exactly, but it irks me for some reason... I'll probably go back and re-write it once everything is said an done. **

**Aslo, I'm very sorry for taking so long to post this new chapter. I kept meaning to all last week and the week before, but life happened... and I've been a little bit lazy. Sorry! **

**I'll do my best to update on Thursdays though. At least with this story. I'll try to keep it consistant once I get more work up on here. **

**Well, anyway. Thank you for reading! Comments are always welcome. And I hope you all have a lovely day! =)**


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: You have no idea how much of a horrible human being I feel like right now. I am so sorry that this took so long for me to post. Please forgive me! I'll do my best to get several chapters written over spring break. But for now, please enjoy this chapter and feel free to comment!_

**Chapter Five**

Sherlock stepped out onto the fire escape and tapped out a cigarette, lighting it quickly. As John followed him, stopping at the window, he took a long drag, releasing it in a slow sigh. As much as he was aware that what he was doing was slowly killing him cell by cell, Sherlock didn't care. His addiction was set in place and even though he probably did have it in him to quit at any time, he didn't fancy the idea.

Smoking, however, was not his only unhealthy habit. During the school year, Sherlock would drabble in the occasional recreational drug, cocaine mostly, but he had tried heroin once. Heroin he had not enjoyed, mostly because coming down had been the worst experience of his life. He had crashed after nearly 10 straight hours of his most brilliant brainwork to date, and had ended up sleeping for twice that amount of time. When he woke, it had felt as if someone had beaten him, his body was so sore, and his head throbbed with a migraine that had yet to be matched. That was the first and only time Sherlock Holmes would shoot up with heroin; cocaine, yes, heroin, no.

Taking another drag from his cigarette, Sherlock glanced over at John, who was staring at him from the open bedroom window. He had an ugly scowl on his face. Releasing the smoke from his lungs in an annoyed sigh, he turned to face the footballer.

"Problem?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"You know those are going to kill you one day, don't you?" John said, his scowl deepening.

Sherlock let out a short laugh and took a deep, pointed breath from his fag, letting it out in rings. John just continued to glare at him.

As Sherlock finished his cigarette, John leaned forward on the window sill. "You're going to end up with lung cancer and emphysema and heart disease and high blood pressure and whatever other smoking-related diseases there are out there," he finally said in a completely serious tone, picking at a loose paint chip.

Sherlock stared at the footballer for a moment. He refused to look up, keeping his eyes focused completely on the paint chip. His brows were furrowed and there was a frown firmly embedded where his normally cheerful mouth should have been. His shoulders were somewhat hunched from having to hold the majority of his weight on his forearms, which were resting on the window sill. So, in summary, John Watson looked adorable, and Sherlock couldn't help but laugh at how utterly ridiculous he was being.

However, it seemed that John didn't enjoy being laughed at, because his eyes shot up at Sherlock instantly, hard as steel. "What the hell is so funny?" he demanded.

"You!" Sherlock barked out, the cigarette butt falling from between his fingers and he clutched his side. "You're being absolutely absurd, and the look on your face is completely adorable." He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself and looked up a John, a smile on his face.

John did not seem to consider this response acceptable, because he had turned on his heel and stomped back into the flat, shoulders stiff, fists balled at his sides. With a choked noise that comes from laughter being abruptly cut off, Sherlock scrambled through the open window after him.

"John!" he called down the stairs, taking them two at a time. "John! Would you stop and talk to me! For god's sake, you're acting like a child!"

The footballer reeled back, his face angry. "Pardon me for worrying about your health, Sherlock Holmes!" he retorted, his voice slightly raised. "I was only trying to look out for you, because for some god forsaken reason I care! After only three days, I care about you more than anyone else! I'm sorry if that's inconvenient or incomprehensible to you, because you're so good at hiding how you feel behind those damned walls!" He took a deep, ragged breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Damn it." He sat down on the coffee table, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. "I'm sorry," he mumbled after a few moments, not raising his head. "I'm sorry. This is just—overwhelming. Not so used to letting people in myself." John laughed one short, dry laugh.

Sherlock seated himself in the grey chair opposite the one John had clearly claimed as his own, feet planted firmly on the floor and his forearms resting on his knees, hands dangling between. He watched John for a few minutes, watched his shoulders rise and fall as he breathed. Finally, he bit his lip and spoke.

"I'll quit," he said in a quiet, unsure voice.

John still didn't look up. "What?" he sighed, his fingers sliding fractionally into his blonde hair.

"Smoking." Sherlock stared at a spot just beyond John's left shoulder. "If it bothers you, I'll stop."

John did look up this time, his eyes wide with surprise. "What?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking the blonde in the face. "Please don't make me repeat myself again, redundancy is so dull."

"You would quit smoking for me?" John asked, sitting up a little bit straighter. "Why?"

"If it bothers you, I'll stop. It's really as simple as that." He picked at a piece of lint clinging to the shirt of John's that he was wearing.

"That doesn't answer my question, Sherlock," the footballer said frankly, gazing intently at him.

Sherlock fidgeted, twisting the hem of the tee-shirt between his fingers again and again, trying to avoid answering. When John growled in irritation and stood, he looked up.

"Fine, don't answer me," John hissed, squaring his shoulders and turning to storm off to some other part of the flat.

"I thought the answer would be obvious," Sherlock said quickly, his body bringing him to his feet without his permission. He swallowed.

"Well, clearly it's not," John spat, rounding on Sherlock once again. He stepped back in surprise, the back of his heel colliding with the leg of the chair not quite painfully. "Not everyone is as brilliant and clever as you apparently are."

"I realize that," Sherlock snapped, his eyes hardening to ice. "But I didn't think you needed me to say it aloud."

"Of course I need you to say it aloud!" John exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I'm not a goddamn mind-reader!"

"Fine then. John Watson, I will quit smoking if it bothers you because I care about you, and even though I've known you for three days, the idea of you being unhappy is painful. There, are you pleased now?" Sherlock gritted his teeth together, shoulders tense.

Even though he knew John had wanted to hear the words, Sherlock could still tell that they came as a surprise to him, as if he hadn't expected him to actually say them. He stood there in the middle of the room, blinking almost dumbly at him, his mouth hanging slightly open. Then he looked away, blushing pink, and Sherlock felt his frustration drain away, only to be replaced by a tugging feeling at his heart. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was pull John into his arms and hold him as tightly as possible. It was completely irrational.

"Would you really quit, Sherlock?" John finally asked, glancing at him from the corner of his eye.

"If it bothered you, yes, I would."

"It does bother me," John admitted nervously, his eyes trailing from Sherlock's, to his mouth, and back again. He licked his lips.

"Then I'll stop." Sherlock took his only pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and stepped forward, placing it in John's hand. He watched John closely as he stared down at them, knowing he was wondering what to do and, most likely, whether or not Sherlock was really telling the truth. And he was telling the truth; he would quit smoking. John needn't know about his other unhealthy doings, what he didn't know couldn't hurt him. "I promise."

"And the lighter?" John closed his hand around the carton and moved his eyes back up to Sherlock.

Sherlock grinned. "There are all sorts of uses for lighters other than cigarettes. Why throw it away? I swear that's the only pack I have, and I won't go out and buy more." He looked at the footballer seriously now. He could tell that he was weighing the options, deciding if Sherlock was telling the truth, or if he wasn't. He hopped that one day he could make John trust him unconditionally, but he understood the feeling of uncertainty. The idea of putting his trust so completely in someone was frightening, and the idea of what would come if that trust were broken was even more so.

John seemed to come to his decision and Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts.

"Okay." He set the cigarettes on the coffee table and took a step forward so that they were now mere inches from one another. Sherlock gazed down at John as he reached out and smoothed a hand over his chest, his fingers lingering over his heart. He cleared his throat and stepped away, too soon for Sherlock's liking.

"The tea's probably gone cold," John mumbled, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Sherlock hummed in agreement, watching him through half-lidded eyes, and the two walked slowly back to the kitchen. John poured their cold tea down the sink and started a fresh kettle. But before he could turn or leave the kitchen, Sherlock pressed himself against his back, and wrapped his arms around his waist, holding him firmly in place.

"The smoking isn't the only thing you were upset with me about, John," he breathed, his lips brushing against the outer shell of John's ear. He felt the footballer shudder against him. "What was the other reason?" He nuzzled his cheek against his shoulder.

Sherlock could feel John's skin flush and John cleared his throat. "It was nothing, really, Sherlock," he said after a moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot again. "Like I said earlier on, it was just silly. Nothing to worry about."

"I'd still like to know," Sherlock whispered, letting his lips brush against the back of the footballer's neck. "Please."

He heard John swallow hard. "It was just—I was upset about—that is very distracting, Sherlock," he said breathily, tilting his head slightly to the side as Sherlock placed chaste kisses along the side of his neck.

Sherlock chuckled under his breath and pressed his cheek back to John's shoulder, trying to lessen the distraction. "You were upset about what?"

John shook his head in an attempt to clear it. "Ah—I was upset because you used that snippy tone and seemed to be annoyed with the fact that I want to take things slowly." He cleared his throat.

"And you thought I was trying to push you." It was a statement, not a question. Sherlock stood straighter and turned John around so they were facing. "I'm not pushing you into anything."

He watched John's eyes as they darted over his face. "Okay," the footballer said quietly after a moment.

He still seemed thoroughly distracted, so Sherlock took the opportunity to lean down and steal a kiss. He pulled away just as the pressure was returned and whispered softly, "Kettle's whistling," and pulled away completely, settling into a kitchen chair.

He enjoyed the momentarily dazed look on John's face, before he ran a hand through his hair and placed a tea bag in either of the cups he had set out before, pouring the steaming water in after the bags. Sherlock traced his eyes over the outline of John's body as he brought the mugs to the table and went back for the jar of honey. He paused midway back only to turn and retrieve the little pot of sugar from the counter as well.

Sherlock smiled, but quickly masked over it, more out of habit than anything else. John didn't seem to notice though and just sat across from him, setting the sugar and honey down in the middle of the table. Sherlock reached out and removed the lid from the sugar, scooping two spoonfuls into his tea, stirring it slowly, keeping his gaze steady on John.

"Would you like anything to eat?" John asked around his mug, his eyes level with Sherlock's.

"No, thank you. I'm not hungry." He wasn't at all surprised to see that John was. Surprised that was. It had been probably close to seventeen or eighteen hours since they had both eaten last. He didn't eat much though, never really had.

"Are you sure?" John pressed, gazing at Sherlock over the top of his mug, his eyebrows raised.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, sipping his tea. He let his eyes travel slowly down John's face and back up again. He found that he rather liked the crease the footballer got between his brows when he knit them together. He licked his lips and let his eyes wander to his neck and throat.

Unable to stop himself, Sherlock set his mug on the kitchen table and stood, walking slowly around until he was directly in front of John, staring down at him. He was still sipping his tea, an eyebrow quirked in curiosity.

"What is it?" John set his tea on the table and Sherlock swallowed, leaning down and brushing his lips against the blonde's cheek, letting his hands rest on the back of his chair at either of his shoulders. He moved his lips to John's jaw, kissing softly along to the hollow beneath his ear. "Sherlock," he breathed, his hands, weather unconsciously or not, moving up at rest on Sherlock's chest, gripping the fabric of the shirt tightly.

Sherlock hummed low in his throat, slowly lowering himself so that he was seated lightly on the footballer's lap, his hands moving down his body and back up again until they reached the back of his neck, where they pushed into soft blonde hair. He moved his mouth to John's, kissing him slowly, just the barest of brushes, an invitation. He was pleased when John pressed against him, his tongue pushing at his lips. Sherlock happily parted them and tasted John in his mouth, a slight hint of mint toothpaste and tea behind it. He was sure he still tasted of cigarette smoke and wished he had had time to clean his teeth, or at least rinse his mouth with Listerine. John didn't seem to mind though.

Suddenly, John made a noise of surprise and pulled away, his eyes slightly wide. Sherlock stared at him, unable to mask the look of disappointed at the loss of contact. When he felt the blonde's hand on his wrist, he started. His right hand, which had, only moments before, been clutching at John's hair, had somehow wormed its way between the two of them, his fingers trying to dip below the waistband of the footballer's trousers. He stared for a moment before turning a bewildered gaze to John.

The blonde was flushed red, his hand still tightly gripping Sherlock's wrist, but he didn't push him off, which Sherlock took as a good sign. Slowly, tentatively, he pulled his hand away, sliding it up John's stomach, chest, to rest lightly on his shoulder. Not removing his eyes from John's he leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, and another, and another. Gradually, John began to relax, the tension draining from his muscles, and kissed back, letting his hands rest on Sherlock's hips, his fingers pressing under the hem of his shirt.

Sighing, Sherlock let his hands snake around John's shoulders, pushing his left hand into his sandy hair. Tugging slightly, he tilted the footballer's head back and kissed down his chin to his neck, sucking at the pulse point just below his jaw. He felt John hitch his breath, and the hands on his hips tightened their grip, pulling him forward a little. Sherlock let his teeth skim down John's neck, nipping at a spot he had recorded as being sensitive; he was rewarded with a sharp gasp followed by a low moan, and suddenly, the hands that had been grasping so firmly at his hips, were pushing his shirt up, fingertips pressing into the flesh between his shoulders.

With his shirt now rucked up around his ribs, Sherlock felt the fabric of John's rubbing against his stomach. He let his right hand slide back down John's chest and pulled the piece of clothing up, smoothing his fingers over the muscles of his abdomen. John shivered.

"Our tea's probably gone—it's probably gone cold—again," Sherlock heard John gasp.

He let out a bemused laugh, kissing down John's neck before running his tongue from his throat to his chin. Even in this state, John was worried about the damned tea. Sherlock had a feeling that the footballer was a bit of tea snob.

"Bugger the tea," he growled, pulling up so he could look John in the eye. They were soft and a deeper blue than any ocean. His breath caught and he lowered his mouth back to John's, taking his bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling lightly. He felt the blonde shiver, and couldn't help but rock his hips against his, groaning into the kiss.

The kiss grew slowly fiercer, with John's fingernails digging into Sherlock's shoulder blades, and Sherlock's tongue pushing past the barrier of John's lips. Sherlock's hand in the footballer's hair tightened, pulling harder than he had intended, but the effect was nice, with John moaning into his mouth. He swallowed up the sound, running his tongue along the soft inner edge of John's bottom lip. He let out a little yelp of surprise when teeth closed lightly around the tip, and it was sucked back into the mouth he was kissing. Sherlock moaned quietly and slide the hand that was still stroking at John's abdomen, around the boy's back, pulling him closer so that their stomachs were pressed tightly together.

After a moment, John pulled away gasping, his eyes wide.

"Sherlock," he whispered after he had recaptured his breath, "have you ever kissed anyone before?"

Sherlock thought it was a rather odd question, one that he could have sworn he had answered the night before. However, his mind was so muddle up in the moment, that the only things he was really sure of were the facts that he had just been snogging the most perfect being in the world and that he had a little bit of a problem developing, and as his shifted his weight slightly, apparently so did John.

"I've kissed you," he stated plainly, resting his forehead against John's and drawing in a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. "But that's not what you mean."

John shook his head, but just barely.

"I've only kissed you," Sherlock clarified, the tips of his fingers rubbing small circles against John's scalp.

"Only kissed me…." the blonde murmured, and Sherlock watched as his eyes searched him, keeping his face perfectly composed and blank. "Why?"

It was his turn to search John's face, and the footballer's emotions and thoughts were written plainly over his features. Sherlock saw there, curiosity, which was to be expected, excitement, most likely because of the activity they had just participated in, and nervousness. There was also nervousness, but Sherlock didn't understand why, and it was a frustrating thing for a Holmes to not know something. But now the task at hand was to decide whether or not he wanted to answer John's question with the truth or an outright lie. Some pulling, nagging voice inside his head told him to lie, while another that he rarely heard, told him that telling the truth would bring the best out come in the long run. In the end, the truth seemed like the better option.

"As I told you last night at dinner, I've never been remotely interested in any member of the same or opposite sex," he started.

"Yes, you said that you didn't think yourself capable of being interested in anybody. What did you mean by that exactly?" Sherlock shivered as John's hands slipped down his back to rest once more on his hips.

"I meant just that. I didn't think myself capable. Until I met you, I'd always considered myself to be asexual, because in all of my seventeen years I have never been physically or emotionally attracted to another person, male or female." I gauged John's reaction before continuing. "And I think if I had never met you, it would have remained that way."

"You can't know that," John replied, a scornful sort of note underlying his tone.

"Perhaps not, but seeing as I have never once been attracted to anyone, I think it's safe to say that it's more than likely the truth. You seem to be the one exception."

John hummed, rubbing his hands against the skin at Sherlock's hips. "Wonder why that is."

"As silly as it sounds, have you ever heard of the term 'soul-mates'?" Sherlock asked, combing his fingers slowly through the footballer's hair. The other look slightly started at the mention of such an intimate term and Sherlock quickly began to explain. "What I mean is that when people typically think of 'soul-mates,' they think of people who, from the very first day, are always together, who were made of one another, so to speak. We have personalities that are compatible on virtually every level and that's why we feel this way. Hormones and pheromones play a big role as well, I'm sure."

"God, when you say it like that, it sounds so…." John paused, trying to grapple on to the right word. "Scientific," he finished lamely, it was clearly not the word he had wanted to use, but no other in the English language seemed to come to his aid.

"It is, I suppose."

John looked away, his eyes downcast, his shoulder slumped, and Sherlock was surprised. "John," he said quickly, sliding the hand that was tangled in the footballer's hair to rest at the side of his face, stroking his thumb along his cheekbone. "You took that the wrong way."

"How did I?" John mumbled, not raising his eyes, his brows furrowing a little bit.

"You said that what we have sounds scientific, and you're not wrong, there is a science behind every attraction between every person. But there are also emotions that are illogical and irrational. And from what I can tell, and what I've observed of other people, the emotions always outweigh the science. The science is just there." Sherlock shook his head, frustrated with himself. He couldn't explain it right and even in his own ears it sounded like he was rambling.

"How do I know that I'm not just some science experiment to you?" John whispered, still keeping his eyes glued to a point just beyond Sherlock's left hip.

"You are _not _a science experiment, John Watson." Sherlock's voice was hard.

Finally John looked him in the face, and Sherlock had to fight all of his instincts not to clear his emotions from his expression. Somehow, he knew John needed to see them there in order to believe the words he was speaking.

"Okay," the blonde whispered at length.

Sherlock stood up, pulling John with him, and they made their way to the sofa. He sat and tugged the other to sit beside him.

"Do you want to watch a bit of telly?" John suggested after a few minutes, and Sherlock just hummed, nuzzling his face against the side of his neck, kissing every few seconds.

John turned on the television and flipped through the channels before settling for some terrible crime show that Sherlock didn't pay attention to.

—

Several hours later, the sun had gone down and Sherlock somehow found himself pinned on his back to the sofa, John Watson pressing down on him, kissing him softly. He couldn't complain, really, it was comfortable and John made an excellent blanket against the chill that was drafting through the room. He sighed, letting his fingers doodle little circles on John's lower back where his skin was exposed.

John pulled back to rest his forehead against Sherlock's, looking him in the eye.

"How could I have fallen for you this hard in four days?" he asked in a hushed voice, brushing a stray curl from Sherlock's eyes. "It's completely mental."

Sherlock chuckled in his throat, tightening his arms around John's waist. "Of course it's mental. If human beings were sane creatures, we wouldn't drabble in subjects like emotion. Emotion is a catalyst for bad things and we knowingly stoke its fire ever second of every minute of every hour of every day. And we call ourselves cleverest life-forms on the planet," he scuffed.

"I dunno," John said, pushing his left hand through Sherlock's tangled curls. "This isn't bad, is it? What we've got right now. And emotions aren't the cause of all horrible things. Natural disasters for example."

Sherlock laughed, shaking his head. "That is not what I meant, John, and you know it. Think about this. Why was World War I started?"

"Because Arch-Duke Ferdinand was assassinated," John answered immediately.

"Yes, but that's only half the reason. Austria declared war on Serbia because their duke had been assassinated; they wanted revenge. What emotion fuels the desire for revenge?" John shrugged and shook his head. "Anger, John, anger fuels revenge. Adolph Hitler rallied an entire nation. How did he manage such an incredible feat? He manipulated the emotions of the people who were victimized at the end of World War I by the Treaty of Versailles. They were feeling weak and he rose up and was a great leader to them, made them feel safe. His intentions were wrong and he proved to be completely psychotic. He wanted to groom the perfect race of humans, why? Because he felt that he deserved to be the ruler of the world and that blonde-hair, blue-eyed people were dominate in the gene pool. What emotion was the foundation of this? Greed and idiocy."

"Idiocy isn't an emotion," John laughed.

"Well it ought to be," Sherlock grumbled. "Anyway. Emotions only lead to bad things."

"You're only thinking about the negative aspects of history, Sherlock," John disagreed, propping himself up on his elbows so he could look Sherlock straight in the eye. "History does not dictate our relationship. Emotions might lead to some pretty horrible events, sure, but that's not always the case."

Sherlock thought for a moment, not taking his eyes from John's. It was like he could see all the way into his mind through those eyes, and it was fascinating. "Maybe," he finally said. "But all of the important dates are governed by negative emotions that do negative things. It's just a fact of nature."

"What about holidays?" the footballer countered, his brows knitting together. "Those aren't governed by negativity. They're about family and thankfulness and love."

"They're all corporate now. All about big companies making money. Nothing but greed," Sherlock sniffed. "Most families give presents and eat food, nothing more."

"Not all families. Some actually come together and enjoy the time they spend with one another. They go to church, they laugh, they smile." Sherlock could see the crease now, between John's brows.

"Do they really?" he asked. He was honestly shocked to hear this. In all of his experiences of the holidays, mostly Christmas, his parents had left town and his entire family gathered under one roof to eat all of the food stored in the pantry. There was nothing pleasant about it, nothing fun, nothing enjoyable. It was simply an obligation.

"Yes. They do, Sherlock. Have you never had a proper Christmas?" Sherlock knew John meant it as a joke, but a statement as true as that was not funny. "My god. Have you really never had a proper Christmas?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Christmas in my family is a bit—ah—force. Everyone gathers under one roof—usually our roof—once a year, and they all squawk about business and politics. It's unbearable and I usually excuse myself after dinner. Mummy and Father typically aren't even in town." His muscles tensed as he spoke. Talking about his family wasn't something he usually enjoyed doing.

"What do you mean?" The crease between John's brows was very deep now indeed.

"They usually holiday in someplace warm for Christmas. Like the south-pacific or Fiji. They can't stand Mycroft and me under the same roof together, let alone the entire family." Sherlock could taste the bitterness of the words on his tongue.

"Oh." John dropped his gaze to a place beside Sherlock's neck and gnawed at his bottom lip.

"What're you thinking, John?" Sherlock asked quietly, squirming a little beneath the footballer's comfortable weight.

"I—it's just—it's nothing. Just a silly idea." He didn't look up.

"What? What is your 'silly idea,' John Watson?"

"I was just thinking—perhaps—maybe you could—instead of spending Christmas dinner with your family, since you seem to hate it so much, maybe you'd like to join Mrs Hudson an me for dinner?" John finished in a rush, his cheeks tinting a lovely pink.

A smile slowly spread across Sherlock's face and he reached up and pressed his mouth to John's. "I would love to," he breathed when he pulled away. "It sure beats the hell out of spending any amount of time with my family. Horrible lot." He wrinkled his nose.

After a moment, he glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed. It was very late and as much as he hated the idea of leaving John for the night, he needed to get home.

"I have to go, John. It's late and my brother has probably been wondering where I am. I dread looking at my phone. It's probably completely full with messages and texts from him."

John groaned, burying his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck. "D'you really have to leave?" he mumbled and Sherlock shivered as his breath tickled his skin.

"I really have to leave. I'd stay, but I haven't got anything to wear in the morning." He scratched his fingernails over the blonde's lower back.

"I could come with you?" John suggested hopefully.

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. It was a daft idea. He knew that if Mycroft found John, there would be an endless stream of questions: who are his parents, where is he from, what school does he go to, what does he do in his spare time, etc, etc, etc. All questions Sherlock would rather avoid. And really, they were all stupid questions; Mycroft could find out anything he wanted about John Watson with the push of a button. It was probably the case that he already knew where Sherlock was and with whom. His brother did love to waist the country's resources for his own petty reasons.

"No, I don't think that's such a good idea. You wouldn't like my brother much," he said once he stopped laughing.

"Please?" And the breath was knocked out of Sherlock at the site of John's wide eyes staring pleadingly down at him. For the first time in his life, he, Sherlock Holmes, was actually being begged for something, with puppy-dog-eyes no less, at it was actually working. What sort of spell did John Watson have him under and how could he break it? But then, perhaps he didn't want it broken….

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Fine. But if and when you meet my brother, don't say that I didn't warn you, because I most certainly did." Sherlock slid his hands from John's back to his chest and pushed him off, sitting up and stretching his arms over his head. "Well, let's get going then." He stood and walked to the door, pulled on his coat and scarf, and slipped on his trainers. John followed him, doing the same. "Wait. Bring a change of clothes and anything you'll need."

John nodded and made for his bedroom. A couple of minutes later he returned with an overnight bag on his shoulder.


End file.
